A  STUDY  OF  THE 
SHORT  STORY 


CANBY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


cMAR.ooR.iE.  JDOBBINS 


jpp; 
&f. 


BY 


HENRY  SEIDEL  CANBY,  PH.D. 

Assistant  Professor  of  English  in  the  Sheffield  Scientific 
School  of  Yale  University 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


COPYHIGHT,    1913 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


THE    OUINN    «    BOOEN    CO.  PRESS 


College 
Library 


PREFACE 

IN  this  book  I  have  tried  to  present  a  brief,  clear,  and 
reasonably  comprehensive  account  of  the  short  story  in 
English  and  American  literature.  I  have  tried  to  char- 
acterize faithfully  the  broader  movements,  selecting  from 
the  vast  literature  of  short  narrative  the  writing  which 
has  been  vital  either  in  itself  or  because  of  its  influence. 

Wider  reference  to  short-story  literature,  and  full 
bibliographical  details,  will  be  found  in  The  Short  Story 
in  English  (Henry  Holt  and  Company,  1909).  With 
that  book  as  background,  it  seemed  possible  to  write  a 
simpler,  less  detailed  account  of  short-story  history,  for 
the  use  of  college  classes,  and  for  such  readers  as  might 
combine  a  desire  for  brevity  with  their  interest  in  the  short 
story.  The  two  books  are  complementary.  The  historical 
development  of  the  short  story  is  discussed  in  both;  for  a 
"  documented  "  investigation,  and  for  the  basis  of  many 
generalizations,  the  reader  should  go  to  the  earlier  and 
larger  work. 

Nevertheless,  although  I  have  taken  advantage  of  the 
information  accessible  in  The  Short  Story  in  English  to 
free  the  following  pages  from  hindering  bibliography  and 
frequent  reference  to  minor  literature,  I  have  done  all 
possible  to  make  this  new  history  of  the  short  story  more 
discriminating,  more  just,  and  more  true.  The  historical 
periods  and  the  course  of  development  laid  down  before 
have  been  verified  by  later  study,  but  I  have  felt  as  free 
to  modify  the  critical  conclusions  of  my  earlier  work  as 
to  borrow  from  them. 

iii 

3101062 


iv  Preface 

To  this  brief  history  have  been  added  eleven  illus- 
trative stories,  for  the  convenience  of  classes  and  the 
general  reader.  These  are  not  the  "  eleven  best  stories  " ; 
the  list  is  not  even  as  completely  representative  as  I  could 
wish  of  the  best  American  and  English  short-story  writers. 
Closely  held  copyrights  would  make  an  ideal  selection  im- 
possible of  publication  at  present,  except  by  piracy,  even  if 
such  an  anthology  could  be  crowded  into  a  single  volume. 
However,  this  group  of  stories  is  thoroughly  illustrative 
of  the  history,  the  structure,  and  the  excellences  of  the 
short  story;  and  in  combination  with  the  smallest  public 
library,  will  supply  the  reading  without  which  literary 
history  is  valueless.* 

This  book  is  intended  also  as  a  substitute  for  the  au- 
thor's The  Short  Story,  published  in  1902  as  one  of  the 
Yale  Studies  in  English.  So  much  water  has  run  under 
the  bridges  since  then  that  it  seemed  better  to  write  a  new 
book,  rather  than  to  reissue  a  partial  study. 

NEW  HAVEN,  August  i,  1912. 

*  A  comprehensive  list  of  representative  short  narratives  in 
the  chief  literatures  may  be  found  in  Jessup  and  Canby's  The 
Book  of  the  Short  Story,  edition  of  1912. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  WHAT  is  A   SHORT   STORY? i 

II.  THE  MEDIEVAL  SHORT  STORY 3 

III.  THE  SHORT  STORY  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE       .       .       .13 

IV.  THE  SHORT  STORY  OF  THE  EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY     .     22 
V.  THE  SHORT  STORY  AND  THE  ROMANTIC  MOVEMENT   .     26 

VL    POE,   AND  THE  FURTHER  DEVELOPMENT  OF  THE  Ro- 

MANTIC  SHORT  STORY     .       .       .       .    '  .       .       .30 

VII.    NATHANIEL   HAWTHORNE 39 

VIII.    ENGLAND  IN  THE  MID-CENTURY       .       .       .       .       .45 
IX.    AMERICA  IN   THE   MID-CENTURY.     THE   BROADENING 

OF  THE  FIELD  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY  ....     47 

X.    BRET  HARTE 50 

XI.    THE  FURTHER  BROADENING  OF  THE  FIELD  OF  THE  SHORT 

STORY 54 

XII.    THE  LOCAL  COLORISTS 56 

XIII.  THE  DEEPENING  OF  THE  SHORT  STORY.     HENRY  JAMES    60 

XIV.  THE    SHORT    STORY    IN    ENGLAND.     ROBERT    Louis 

STEVENSON 63 

XV.    THE  SHORT  STORY  IN  ENGLAND.     RUDYARD  KIPLING    (>j 
XVI.    THE  CONTEMPORARY  SHORT  STORY         ....     72 

ILLUSTRATIVE  SHORT  STORIES 

THE    PARDONERS   TALK        .       .  Geoffrey   Chaucer  .  .79 

THE  PRIORESSES  TALE         .       .  Geoffrey   Chaucer  .  .     87 

THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA        .       .  Joseph  Addison   .  .  .95 
THE  LINGERING  EXPECTATION  OF 

AN  HEIR Samuel  Johnson  .  .  .   101 

WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE       .  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  .  .107 

THE  MASQUE  OF  THE  RED  DEATH  Edgar  Allan  Poe  .  .  133 

THE    GOLD-BUG    ....  Edgar  Allan  Poe  .  .   141 

ETHAN    BRAND      ....  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  .   187 

RAB   AND   His   FRIENDS       .       .  John  Brown         .  .  .208 

THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROIT'S  DOOR  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  .  226 

ON  GREENHOW  HILL   .       .       .  Rudyard  Kipling  .  .  252 


i 


THE  SHORT  STORY 


WHAT  IS  A   SHORT   STORY? 

WHEN  a  maker  of  fiction  starts  out  to  write  or  to  tell 
a  story,  he  must  find  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end  for 
his  narrative.  It  is  a  completed  action  that  his  audience 
asks  for.  The  most  typical  instance  of  such  a  completed 
action  is  to  Be  found  in  the  life  of  a  man,  or  a  group  of 
men,  or  the  important  details  of  that  life ;  and  it  is 
of  such  a  life-history  that  the  modern  novel  professes  to 
treat. 

Yet  within  this  unity  of  man's  birth,  achievement,  and 
death  are  many  lesser  unities,  none  the  less  complete  be- 
cause they  may  be  regarded  as  parts  of  a  whole.  The 
hopeless  love  which  binds  together  a  few  episodes  of  some 
otherwise  not  extraordinary  life  into  a  significant  story; 
the  unexpected  situation  quickly  developing,  quickly  pass- 
ing away;  these  are  strands  which  can  be  drawn  from 
the  web  of  possible  experience.  The  term  "  short  story," 
as  it  is  used  in  current  writing  and  speech,  does  not  mean 
a  story  which  merely  happens  to  be  short;  it  is  applied 
to  the  narrative  which  covers  such  a  lesser  unity.  A  lesser 
unity,  of  the  kind  I  have  described,  makes  the  substance 
of  a  short  storyCthe  form  is  what  such  a  subject  demands: 
a  brief  narrative)  all  of  whose  constituent  parts  unite  to 
make  a  single  impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  reader. 

In  the  earlier  periods  of  English  literature  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  short  story  and  other  forms  of  narrative 


( 
< 


2  What  is  a  Short  Story? 

is  better  marked  in  subject  than  in  form;  and  it  is  often 
impossible  to  draw  a  dividing  line  between  the  short  tale 
and  the  long.  The  saints'  legends  and  the  short  romances, 
for  instance;  it  is  often  impossible  to  classify  them.  But 
as  narrative  grows  more  and  more  sophisticated,  the  sep- 
aration is  ever  clearer  and  clearer,  until  to-day  not  only 
the  subject,  but  also  the  manner  of  telling,  of  the  short 
story  set  it  apart  with  sufficient,  usually  with  remarkable, 
definiteness  from  other  kinds  of  fiction. 

However,  the  marking  of  boundaries  need  not  be  taken 
too  seriously  by  the  lover  of  the  short  story.  That  is  a 
task  for  a  rhetorician,  and  a  patient  one.  It  is  enough 
for  us  to  recognize  that  in  all  periods  there  have  been 
stories  told  of  life's  lesser  unities,  and  that,  since  literature 
became  self-conscious,  these  narratives  have  been  felt  to 
constitute  a  class  or  department  of  their  own.  In  their 
many  varieties  they  have  often  been  named  by  the  ages 
or  the  races  which  enjoyed  them,  and  it  is  the  existence  of 
such  well  remembered  genres  which  makes  the  study  of 
the  short  story  something  very  different  from  an  attempt 
to  distinguish  between  short  tales  and  long  ones.  Some- 
times the  name  indicates  a  characteristic  form  and  spirit, 
as  in  the'  Italian  novella,  sometimes  a  definite  subject, 
purpose,  and  form,  as  in  the  fable,  where  a  moral  for 
man  is  drawn  from  a  short  story  of  beasts.  Sometimes 
the  name  is  of  a  transient  kind,  as  with  fhe  hai,  which  was 
merely  a  Celtic  fairy-tale  given  form  in  French  verse. 
Again,  there  may  be  a  distinctive  variety  with  no  really 
istinctive  name,  as  in  the  case  of  our  own  short  story, 
which  differs  in  substance,  and  especially  in  form,  from  all 
earlier  attempts  to  give  a  single  impression  of  a  lesser 
unity. 

The  history  of  the  short  story  in  English  is  a  history 
of  such  of  these  varieties  as  have  appeared   from   time 


The  Medieval  Short  Story  3 

(  to    time    in    English    and    American    literature.     There 
V   has   been    no    real   evolution    among   them.     They   come 
from  change  and  experiment.     They  represent,  at  most, 
a  slow  development,  with  some  retrogressions  and  many- 
fresh  starts.     New  varieties  have  come  in  from  abroad, 
or  have  been  devised  at  home;  have  prospered  according 
to  their  fitness  for  the  needs  of  the  age;  have  declined 
and  given  place  to  others.     Five  times  at  least  the  wave 
of  a  foreign  culture  or  a  foreign  civilization  has  brought 
a  new  short  story  with  it  into  England,  and  twice  in 
England  and  once  in  America  a  new  form  has  been  de- 
veloped by  native  writers.     These  varieties  are  not  all 
equally  important  as  literature,  however  they  may  rank 
in  the  historical  development  of  a  type.     There  can  be 
no  adequate  understanding  of  the  short  story  in  English 
without  a  survey  of  the  successive  experiments,  success- 
ful and  unsuccessful,  which  have  followed  one  another 
/  throughout  so  many  centuries.     But  it  is  from  the  early 
I  nineteenth  century  onward  that  the  short  story  becomes 
/  most  significant  in  English  literature,  most  important  and 
'  most  interesting  for  us;  and  it  is  with  this  period  that  the 
following  pages  will  more  especially  deal. 


II 

THE    MEDIEVAL    SHORT    STORY 

THREE  famous  collections  of  stories,  the  Gesta  Roma- 
norum  (?  I4th  century),  originally  in  Latin,  and  of  un- 
known authorship,  Gower's  Confessio  A  want  is  (i4th  cen- 
tury), and  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales  (i4th  century), 
fairly  sum  up  and  fairly  represent  the  medieval  English 
short  story.  The  first  two  contain  all  of  its  most  notable 


4  The  Medieval  Short  Story 

varieties  in  very  typical  forms;  the  third  registers  the 
high-water  mark  of  artistic  perfection.  The  Gesta  Ro- 
manorum  and  the  Confessio  Ananth  represent  that 
European  literature  of  the  short  story  of  which  Eng- 
land had  its  part;  The  Canterbury  Tales  contain  the 
fruits  of  an  individual  English  genius  freely  at  work 
upon  this  literature.  Let  us  outline  the  varieties  of  the 
medieval  short  story  with  these  three  great  type-collec- 
tions, and  the  examples  they  contain,  as  goal. 

Earliest  in  point  of  time,  most  characteristically  medieval 
fin  spirit  and  in  substance,  are  the  contes  devots.  These 
little  pious  narratives  seem  to  have  originated  with  the 
Greeks  of  the  early  Christian  centuries,  who  made  short- 
story  plots  from  the  miraculous  happenings  of  Christian 
mythology.  From  Greek  they  passed  into  Latin.  Then 
the  most  gifted  of  medieval  races,  the  French,  took  these 
miraculous  anecdotes,  for  they  were  little  more,  and 
from  them  made  exquisite  verse-stories,  in  which  the 
imagination  of  the  French  poet  worked  freely  upon  his 
old  plot.  The  process  was  not  different  from  that  by 
which  the  Greeks  and  Romans  wrought  their  myths  into 
artistic  forms. 

To  the  old  stories  the  French  writers  added  many  new 
ones,  the  greater  number  inspired  by  the  growing  cult  of 
the  Virgin  Mary.     These  stories  spread  to  England,  both 
in  great  cycles  of  Miracles  of  Our  Lady,  and  in  contes 
j  devots  of  other  saints,  or,  again,  as  separate  tales  of  a 
\  miracle  which  had  happened  to  a  layman,  a  monk,  a  nun, 
^or  a  priest.     In  England  they  permeated  all  the  literature 
/of  the  church.     The  South  English  Legendary  has  many, 
Robert    of    Brunne's    quaint    and    instructive    Handlyng 
Synne  (1303)   has  many;  but  the  most  charming  of  the 
earlier  specimens  are  to  be  found  in  the  ruins  of  a  great 
collection  which  was  copied  into  the  Vernon  manuscript 


The  Medieval  Short  Story  5 

(E.  E.  T,  S.  98).  One  of  its  few  surviving  stories  re- 
counts how  Our  Lady  "  drew  out  "  a  new  leg  for  her 
worshipper  who  had  lost  his  by  disease;  another  how  she 
cured  a  quinsied  monk  by  milk  from  her  own  breast ;  and 
a  third  is  the  dubiously  moral  tale  of  a  monk  who  ran 
wanton  in  his  wilde-hede,  yet  was  saved  from  hell-fire  be- 
cause he  said  his  Ave  Maria  each  night  before  he  started 
on  his  rakish  way.  But  these  naive  and  simple  tales  are 
only  preliminary  to  the  supreme  English  composition  in 
•/this  mode,  Chaucer's  Prioress's  Tale,  of  the  little  clergeoun 
whose  throat  was  cut  by  the  envious  Jews,  and  who, 
thanks  to  Mary,  was  restored  to  sing  Alma  Redemptoris 
loud  and  clear.  Simply  told,  earnestly  told,  not  con- 
sciously fictitious,  yet  with  a  good  plot,  these  stories  are 
myths  just  passing  into  artistic  form.  And  this,  indeed, 
is  the  characteristic  of  the  conte  devot.  No  remnant  of 
our  earlier  literature  is  more  charming,  and  more  redolent 
of  medievalism. 

/      Scarcely  less  naive  than  the  conte  devot,  quite  as  charm- 

)  ing,  but  much  rarer,  was  the  lai.    The  lai  was  a  Celtic 

I   fairy-story  which  had  been  given  form  and  orderly  develop- 

'    ment  in  French  verse.     It  was  born  and  named  in  the 

\  twelfth    century,    and    to    a    mysterious    Frenchwoman, 

I  Marie  de  France,  probably  of  the  English  court  of  Henry 
II,  we  owe  the  best  examples.  But  one,  at  least,  was  done 
in  the  English  of  the  thirteenth  century,  the  excellent 

i/Orfeo  and  Heurodis,  a  verse-story  in  which  the  old 
legend  of  Orpheus  and  Eurydice  has  been  medievalized 
and  transferred,  with  a  Celtic  glamour,  to  the  faery 
world.  More  lais  appear  later,  of  which  the  finest  is 

%/Chaucer's  Wife  of  Bath's  Tale,  where  the  fairy-hag 
transforms  herself  into  beautiful  youth  for  the  knight 
who  gives  her  sovereignty  over  him.  Gower  tells  the 
story  in  his  Florent,  more  directly  but  with  less  charm. 


6  The  Medieval  Short  Story 

Except  in  grace,  melody,  and  wisdom,  these  later  writers 
do  not  excel  the  simple  tale  of  Orfeo. 

i       Much  closer  to  the  heart  of  the  Middle  Ages  is  the 

P  fabliau,  a  story  of  humor  and  realism,  which  served  the 

J  frolic  or  the  satiric  mood  as  the  conte  devot  served  devo- 

\  tion,  and  was  at  the  opposite  pole  from  romance.     The 

"  good  story,"  told  from  the  earliest  ages,  was  the  root 

of  the  fabliau;  its  plot  was  often  immeasurably  old;  but 

its  verse  form,  its  elaboration,  its  flavor  of  a  specific  age, 

came  at  the  hands  of  French  minstrels  in  the  twelfth  and 

the  thirteenth  centuries,  and   to  such  verse-stories  alone 

is  the  name  properly  applied.     In  French  many  survive,  in 

English,  before  Chaucer,  but  few,  although  there  is  every 

reason  to  suppose  that  once  they  were  plentiful.1 

But  whatever  may  have  existed  of  English  fabliau  be- 
fore  Chaucer  sinks  into   insignificance  beside  his   trans- 
formation of  this  variety  of  the  short  story.     His  mas- 
/  terpieces,  The  Miller's  Tale,  of  a  reeve  duped  by  his  wife, 
\   The  Reeve's  Tale,  of  a  miller  tricked  by  two  Cambridge 
\boys,  and  The  Merchant's  Tale,  of  old  January  and  his 
/frail  but  lovely  May,  offend  against  modern  taste  in  their 
1  indecency,  but  this  indecency  belongs  to  the  satiric,  cynical, 
|  eminently   realistic  fabliau.     Indeed,   they   are  more   in- 
decent, as  they  are  more  vigorous,   more  true   to  char- 
acter, more  picturesque,  and  more  witty  than  any  other 
fabliaux,  whether  in  French  or  in  English.    Furthermore, 
there  is  a  consummate  art  in  these  stories  which  more 
than  makes  up  for  their  grossness.     Chaucer  had  trav- 

1  Of  the  early  ones  that  remain  only  one  is  noteworthy:  the 
quaint  tale  of  Dame  Siriz  and  how,  by  trickery,  she  overcame 
the  chastity  of  a  credulous  wife.  In  a  dialect  so  far  from 
modern  English  that  it  can  be  read  only  by  a  student  of  the 
period,  this  story  has  nevertheless  enough  homely  vigor  of  style, 
and  flavor,  to  give  it  a  humble  place  in  English  literature. 


The  Medieval  Short  Story  7 

eled  to  Italy;  had  been  touched  by  the  spirit  of  the  earliest 
Renaissance;  had  acquired  that  interest  in  individual 
human  nature  which  the  full  Renaissance  was  to  spread. 
In  these  fabliaux  the  human  nature  of  the  Middle  Ages 
comes  to  life  with  all  the  trappings  of  individuality.  The 
humorous  reflection  upon  life  which  is  at  the  root  of  this 
short-story  form  flowers  forth  in  satiric  comment  upon 
character  and  upon  life ;  the  fabliau,  in  short,  develops  its 
full  potentiality  and  becomes  one  of  the  most  successful 
forms  of  the  short  story.  Unfortunately,  Chaucer,  and 
only  Chaucer,  was  able  to  do  all  this,  and  these 
Canterbury  fabliaux  have  had  f^w  successors  and  no 
rivals. 

But  there  is  another  kind  of  fabliau  in   The  Canter- 
bury Tales,  the  Nun's  Priest's  Tale  of  beauteous  Pertelote, 
of  Chauntecleer,  and  of  the  fox  that  beguiled  him.     This 
tale   is  descended   from  the   famous  beast-epic;  no  epic, 
indeed,    but   a   vast   collection    of   stories   originating   in 
France,  in  which  the  lion  was  king,  the  fox  the  villain,  the 
wolf  the  dupe,  and  the  donkey  the  victim. 
/      In  spirit  and  in  form  a  fabliau,  narrowing  its  range  to 
I    a  little  world  of  animal  actors,  but  closely  and  satirically 
J   reflecting  the  real  world  outside,  the  beast-fabliau  was  a 
\  thoroughly  medieval  invention.     The  unknown  author  of 
»  The  Vox  and  the  Wolf  (i3th  century.)  has  given  us  the 
earliest  in  English.     His,  at  most,  is  an  adaptation  from 
the  French.    Chaucer's  is  infinitely  more  original,  and  for 
the  reader  not  skilled  in  Middle  English  his  story  is  by 
far  the  best  example  of  the  type.    But,  fortunately,  in  this 
case  another  man  was  born  before  the  end  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  who  had  the  power  to  repeat  and  vary  Chaucer's 
achievement,  and  we  must  bring  him  in,  even  though  we 

(go  beyond  our  three  collections  to  do  so.  The  so-called 
fables  of  the  Scotchman,  Henryson,  who  lived  in  the  fif- 


8  The  Medieval  Short  Story 

teenth  century,  when  so  much  of  medievalism  was  stale. 
f  are  fables  only  in  name  or  in  origin.     In  spirit  and  in 
\   execution  they  belong  to  the  undidactic  beast-fabliau,  told 
L  not  to  drive  home  a  moral,  but  humorously  to  mirror  life. 
*  The  humor  of  the  beast  has  never  been  better  seen  than  by 
this  Scotchman ;  only  Chaucer  excels  him  in  quaint  charm 
of  phrase;  the  former's  version  of  the  tale  of  Chauntecleer 
and  Pertolote  has  touches  which  even  Chaucer  does  not 
equal.    He  must  rank  among  the  great  humorists;  unfor- 
tunately his  dialect  will   forever  exclude  him   from  the 
popularity  which  he  deserves. 

f       Closely  allied  to  the  fabliau,  differing  often  only  in 
I    mood,  are  the  many  medieval  short  stories  in  which  human 
J  nature,   but   human   nature   in   its  less  amusing  aspects, 
^  is  the  basis  of  the  plot.     Such  stories  in  prose  form  are 
j  numerous  in  the  Gesta  Romanorum,  and  many  a  good 
I  tale,  handed  down  as  history,  belongs  to  this  class.     The 
Middle  Ages  had  no  definite  title  for  them:  perhaps  the 
term  "  novella,"  used  later  by  the  Italians  and  the  Ger- 
mans for  like  short  narratives,  will  serve  usefully  as  a 
name.     Latin   collections  of  exemplary  stories,   so  com- 
mon in  this  period,  are  full  of  brief,  inartistic  specimens; 
Gower  has  many,  usually  of  a  quasi-historical  nature;  but 
Qhaucer's  wonderful  Pardoner's  Tale  is  the  supreme  ex- 
ample  o^  such   a  narrative,   done  In"  the   full   medieval 
spirit,  yet  artistic  to  the  highest  degree.     This  is  the  tale 
of  the  three  who  poisoned  and  murdered  each  other  for 
gold,  a  concise  and  vivid  narrative  which,  once  read,  is 
f  never  forgotten.     It  is  from  human  greed  that  the  story 
\  springs ;  yet  it  is  not  so  much  the  moral  as  the  action 
L  which  one  remembers:  the  old  man  knocking  for  admis- 
sion  upon   the   earth,   which   is   his   mother's   gate;   the 
three  roisterers  setting  out  so  defiantly  to  seek  Death,  who 
awaits  them  by  the  pile  of  gold.     And  this  is  characteristic 


The  Medieval  Short  Story  9 

of  the  novella.  It  was  this  kind  of  short  story  which, 
with  like  substance,  but  a  somewhat  different  form,  was 
to  have  so  great  a  success  in  the  Italian  Renaissance. 

These  story  varieties,   so   far  considered,   are   all   un- 
didactic;  but  the  Middle  Ages  loved   the  story  with  a 
moral.     They  practised  abundantly  the  apologue,  which 
is  a  short  story  based,  as  is  the  fabliau  or  the  novella,  upon 
human  nature,  but  told  for  its  moral,  not  for  its  plot; 
/arrd  the  fable,  which  is  a  like  story,  with  beasts  instead  of 
\rnen  for  actors.     It  would  be  interesting  to  discuss  the  re- 
markable popularity  of  these  narratives;  especially  of  the 
fables,  which,  descending  from  the  Orient  and  the  classic 
civilizations,  spread  through  all  the  medieval  literatures. 
But  fable  and  apologue  alike  were  too  closely  bound  to 
the  service  of  a  work-a-day  didacticism  to  attain  literary 
merit.     The  humor  which  illumined  the  fable-like  beast- 
fabliau,  and  the  imagination  which  sometimes  filled  that 
other  didactic   type  of   the   Middle  Ages,   the   allegory, 
never  transformed  these  humble  stories  into  art. 
/    Yet  there  was  one  mode — variety  is  scarcely  the  word — 
jof  the  medieval  short  story  whose  didacticism  had   far- 
-reaching effects.     A   practice   of  collecting  short  stories 
/  which    could    be    used    as    illustrations    in    sermons   was 
A  formally  begun  in  the  twelfth  century.     By  the  thirteenth 
'and  fourteenth  centuries  this  had  reached  enormous  pro- 
portions.    Vast  collections  of  so-called \_exempla  were  com- 
piled in  Latin  and  alphabetized  for  preachers'  ready  use. 
Handbooks  of  morality,  like  the  HaneHyng  Synne,  already 
mentioned,  were  compiled   in   the  vernacular,  consisting 
chiefly  of  exempla,  each  illustrating  a  point  of  morals  or 
of  doctrine.     The  exemplum  spread  through  all  ecclesi- 
astical  literature,   and   was  imitated   by  secular   writers. 
The   Gesta  Romanorum   is  nothing  but   a  collection   of 
exempla  with  a  high  percentage  of  the  profane,  and  a 


io  The  Medieval  Short  Story 

low  of  the  religious,   in   its  narratives.     The   Confessio 
Amantis  in  its  plan  imitates  a  handbook  of  morality,  with 
discourse  of  love  in  place  of  discourse  of  doctrine,  and 
with  much  the  same  kind  of  stories,  though  better  told. 
The  Canterbury  pilgrimage  itself  is  full  of  evidences  of 
this  influence.     The  Monk's  Tale  is  a  collection  of  ex- 
empla;   The  Pardoner's   Tale  an   cxemplum  which  pro- 
fesses to  illustrate  the  sermon  which  precedes  it,  although 
actually  it  was  the  story  for  which  Chaucer  cared.     All 
r^arieties  of  short  narratives  except  the  most  indecent  and 
Ithe  most  frivolous  were  swept  into  the  exemplum-monger's 
/net ;  so  that,  as  exernpla,  you  may  expect  to  find  every 
Itype   of  medieval   short   story.     And   these   stories   were 
I  rid  of  superfluities,  pulled  together,  sharpened,  as  it  were, 
I  so   that   the   moral   application,   which   had   often   to   be 
I  forced  upon  them,  should  not  lack  its  point.     This,  one 
I  sees,   was  a  very   training-school   for  the  effective  short 
|  story.     And  one  observes,  with  a  dawning  realization  of 
the  literary  importance  of  this  practice,  that  the  majority 
of  medieval  short  narratives  at  one  time  or  another  were 
put  into  this  strait-jacket,  and  that  the  short  story  con- 
tinued to  bear,  in  general,  an  exemplary  character  until 
the  beginning  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

With  due  recollection  of  the  history  of  these  several 
varieties  of  short  story,  thus  briefly  outlined  in  the  preced- 
ing paragraphs,  the  reader  who  wishes  an  introduction 
to  the  medieval  short  story  in  English  may  best  get  it 
in  the  three  works  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter. 

He  should  go  first  to  the  English  translation  of  the 
Gesta  Romanorum,  for  the  homely  but  effective  stories 
of  this  great  collection  represent  the  various  medieval  sub- 
types in  unadorned,  unliterary  form.  Here,  neverthe- 
less, he  will  find  some  of  the  best  plots,  and  furthermore, 


The  Medieval  Short  Story  n 

(he  will  see  the  stock  in  trade  of  the  short-story  teller  be- 
fore individual  talent  had  begun  its  work. 
•  The  Confessio  A mantis  will  give  him  again  stories 
which  are  exemplary  in  form,  but  this  time  told  more 
wisely,  as  befitted  the  scholar  who  was  their  author,  and 
more  elaborately,  and  more  beautifully,  for  Gower  was  a 
man  of  letters,  too.  Furthermore,  art  and  individuality 
begin  to  work  upon  the  stories  in  this  collection,  though 
neither  to  an  overwhelming  degree.  Yet  Gower,  though 
a  tiresome  disputant,  is  a  pleasing  story-teller.  The 
plan  of  his  work  excludes  the  lighter  narratives,  the 
fabliau  and  the  fable,  but,  except  for  their  absence,  there 
is  no  better  book  in  which  to  gain  a  comprehensive  view 
of  the  wide  field  of  the  medieval  short  story.  That  the 
narrative  in  the  Confessio  A  mantis  is  untouched  by  genius 
makes  it  all  the  more  typical  of  its  age. 

It  is  to  Chaucer  most  of  all,  however,  that  the  student 
should  turn  for  an  acquaintance  with  the  medieval  vari- 
eties.    In    The   Canterbury   Tales  he  will  find  the  best 
of  the  short-story  kinds  of  the  Middle  Ages,  with  all  that 
their  centuries  had  given  them,  plus  the  additions  of  a 
great  genius.     Neither  the  French,  who,  in  the  twelfth 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  crystallized  these  sub-types,  nor 
the  Italian  Boccaccio  of  Chaucer's  own  century,  can  bear 
comparison  with  him  in  sheer  story-telling.     The  feeling 
"'for  individuality,  *rfie  sense  of   reality,   the   instinct   for 
-the  essential  word  or  action  which  drives  home  the  plot, 
these   attributes    of    the    great   story-teller    of    any    age, 
I  Chaucer  possessed,  and  employed  them  not  in  new  fields, 
i,but  in  the  familiar  story  fashions  of  his  own  period.     It 
is  true  that  he  was  inspired  by  a  breath  of  the  earliest 
Renaissance,   that  he  was  smitten   with   the  passion   for 
man,  which  was  also  Shakespeare's.     But  although  this 
and  his  own  genius  set  him  apart  from  his  predecessors, 


12  The  Medieval  Short  Story 

yes,  and  from  his  contemporary,  Gower,  yet  he  worked 
with  their  tools,  and  kept  himself  to  the  provinces  which 
they  had  conquered  for  the  short  story.  Better  than  any 
other  writer,  he  can  bring  a  modern  into  sympathy  with 
the  narrative  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

After  Chaucer  came  a  century  of  decline,  with  only 
one  vigorous  contributor  to  the  literature  of  the  short 
story,  and  no  new  varieties.2  The  unliterary  exempla,  to 
be  sure,  flourished  more  abundantly  than  before,  and, 
indeed,  it  is  in  this  fifteenth  century  that  the  Gesta  Ro- 
manorum  was  first  Englished.  Fabliaux,  lais,  apologues, 
contes  devots  were  perpetuated  by  minstrels  and  ecclesi- 
astics in  debased  versions,  which  have  little  worth  except 
as  evidence  of  earlier  and  better  progenitors.  The  writers 
who  carried  on  the  literary  tradition  of  the  English  short 
story  were  Lydgate  and  Occleve,  but  no  narrative  of 
theirs  has  more  than  historical  value.  In  Scotland,  story- 
telling retained  some  of  its  vigor,  and  the  so-called  fables 
of  Henryson,  already  mentioned,  have  virility  and  high 
artistic  excellence.  Of  him  one  can  scarcely  speak  too 
highly.  But  this  is  the  end  of  the  medieval  short  story. 
After  Henryson,  and  his  compatriot,  Dunbar,  there  is  no 
more  short  narrative  of  distinction  until  the  sixteenth 
century  and  the  Renaissance.1 

2  The  medieval  period  saw  the  entrance  into  written  form  of 
one  kind  of  narrative,  the  ballad,  which  was  destined  for  high 
appreciation — after   many   centuries.     But   the   ballad   is   essen- 
tially lyric  in  its  inspiration;   only  in  its  more  debased  forms 
does  it  become  primarily  narrative.     Therefore  it  is  better  left 
out   of   this   accounting. 

3  In  this  brief  survey  of  the  medieval  short  story  I  have  omitted, 
as  seems  just,  all  reference  to  the  stories  of  the  borderland  be- 
tween long  and  short  narrative:  the  short  romances,  for  example, 
such  as  the  French  Aucassin  and  Nicolette,  since  they  may  be 
studied  more  satisfactorily  in  connection  with  the  class  to  which 


The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance       13 
III 

THE  SHORT  STORY  OF  THE  RENAISSANCE 

THE  sixteenth  century  saw  the  end  of  the  old  order  of 
fiction.  In  the  latter  half  of  that  century  this  literature, 
which  had  received  its  form  and  its  types  from  France, 
the  intellectual  leader  of  the  Middle  Ages,  gave  place  to 
a  new  fiction,  borrowed  indirectly  from  Italy,  the  mother 
of  the  Renaissance.  In  this  fiction  the  short  story  was 
paramount.  It  resembled  the  medieval  short  story  in  that 
its  form  and  spirit  came  from  abroad ;  it  differed  in  that 

\no  master,  like  Chaucer,  came  to  develop  its  full  possi- 
bilities. Instead,  as  we  shall  see,  it  gave  all  its  vigor  to 
the  drama  and  to  other  literary  forms,  passing  away 
finally  without  achieving  a  masterpiece  of  the  first  order. 
It  was  the  so-called  novella  of  the  Italians  which 
brought  in  this  new  fiction.  The  novella,  in  a  typical 

%/form,  is  still  familiar  in  The  Decameron  of  Boccaccio. 
That  work,  though  composed  in  1353,  before  The  Canter- 
bury Tales,  and  long  before  the  coming  of  the  Renais- 
sance to  sixteenth-century  England,  is  the  prototype  of 
the  many  collections  which  succeeded  it,  and  which 

V  poured  their  wealth  into  England.  The  stories  of  The 
Decameron  are  in  subject  not  all  short  stories.  Many 
have  the  larger  organism  of  what  the  French  call  the 

Jnouvelle — some,   indeed,   are  condensed   romances.     This 

in  spirit  and  in  substance  they  belong.  Nor  have  I  noted  the 
continual  cross-reference  between  the  varieties  of  the  true  short 
story:  the  conte  devot  which  is  half  apologue;  the  lai  which  is 
half  fabliau;  this  in  the  interest  of  greater  simplicity.  For  a 
detailed  discussion  of  the  whole  period,  with  full  bibliographical 
details,  see  The  Short  Story  in  English,  Chapters  I-V. 


/  ex 


14      The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance 

was  also  true  of  the  medieval  collections.  But  all  are 
written  with  brevity  and  point.  They  are,  in  truth,  ex- 
emplary stories,  but  though  not  differing  from  the  best 
of  the  medieval  exempla,m  form,  all  are  infused  with  a 
freedom  of  observation,  Va  passion  for  life,  and  an  in- 
/  terest  in  places  and  in  character  which  denotes  work  of 
?the  Renaissance.  The  later  novelle  of  Bandellp,  of 
Straparola,  of  Cinthio  —  names  familiar  to  us  because  of 
their  association  with  the  plots  of  Shakespeare's  plays  —  •* 
do  not  differ  strongly  from  these  narratives  of  Boccaccio, 
except  that  their  stories  retain  less  of  the  character  of 
a,  and  draw  more  freely  upon  historical  anecdote. 
Thus  the  Italian  novella  was  a  short  prose  story,  in  short- 
story  form,  though  not  always  with  a  short-story  subject. 
But,  more  important,  it  was  a  vehicle  for  the  conveyance 
of  all  manner  of  fresh  observation  upon  life  and  character. 
It  was  this  which  made  it  appeal  to  the  English  of  the 
Renaissance.4 

Professor  Schelling  has  made  clear  in  his  recent  book  on 

Elizabethan  literature  that  the  Elizabethan  age  must  be 

regarded  as  a  period  of  translation  as  well  as  of  creation. 

*The  proportion  of  this  ardor  for  translation  which  was 

J  spent   upon   the  novella  can  be  judged   from   the  angry 

I  scoldings  of  such  moralists  as  Ascham,  who  thought  that 

I  the  new  story  was  too  warm  for  the  youth  of  England. 

The  monuments  which  remain,  numerous  as  they  are,  rep- 

resent but  a  part  of  the  work.     It  is  certain  that  from 

1566,  when  Painter  Englished  his  collection  of  French 

and   English  stories,   until  the  end  of  the  century,   the 

novella,  in  translation,  imitation,  or  adaptation,  was  the 

popular  fiction  of  Englishmen. 

^/William     Painter's    book,     The    Palace     of    Pleasure 

4  For  a  general   discussion  of  the  sources  of  the  Renaissance 
short  story,  see   The  Short  Story  in  English,  Chapter  VI. 


The  Short  Story  of  the   Renaissance       15 

(1566-67),  will  serve  as  an  example  of  this  novella,  as  it 
first  appeared  in  English  dress.  The  Palace  is  a  volu- 
minous collection  adorned  by  selections  from  the  chief 
novella  writers  of  Italy,  reinforced  by  narratives  from  the 
French,  most  of  which  had  more  remotely  been  Italian, 
and  enriched  by  tales  from  Herodotus  and  other  classic 
authors,  which  resembled  in  substance  and  in  form  the 
Italian  stories.  I  give  the  quaint  sub-title  of  one  narrative 
whose  plot  was  destined  to  greater  fame  than  Painter,  or 
his  French  and  Italian  predecessors  in  the  telling,  could 
give:  "The  goodly  Hystory  of  the  true,  and  constant 
Love  between  Rhomeo  and  Julietta,  the  one  of  whom  died 
of  Poyson,  and  the  other  of  sorrow,  and  hevinesse :  wherein 
be  comprysed  many  adventures  of  Love,  and  other  devises 
touching  the  same."  After  an  introduction  which  says 
that  at  Verona  scarcely  "  their  blubbred  eyes  be  yet  dry," 
that  saw  and  beheld  that  lamentable  sight,"  the  story  be- 
gins: "  When  the  Senior  Escala  was  Lord  of  Verona,  there 
were  two  families  in  the  Citty,  of  farre  greater  fame  than 
the  rest,  as  well  for  riches  as  Nobility:  the  one  called  the 
Montesches,  and  the  other  the  Capellets:  but  lyke  as  most 
commonly  there  is  discorde  amongs  theym  which  be  of 
semblable  degree  in  honour,  even  so  there  hapned  a  cer- 
tayne  enmity  betweene  them:  and  for  so  mutch  as  the 
beginning  thereof  was  unlawfull,  and  of  ill  foundation, 
so  lykewyse  in  processe  of  time  it  kindled  to  sutch 
flame,  as  by  divers  and  sun.dry  devyses  practised  on  both 
sides,  many  lost  their  lyves."  A  love  intrigue  supplies 
the  plot  of  most  of  these  stories.  They  are  simply 
written,  with  few  digressions,  few  flourishes,  and  little 
or  no  originality  on  the  part  of  their  translator.  Per- 
sonality finds  little  place  in  them,  for  it  was  the  plot 
and  not  the  characters  which  interested  their  writers, 
and  yet  they  savor  of  real  life,  especially  the  tales 


1 6      The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance 

•  from  France  and  Italy,  and  are  full  of  potentiality. 
In  England,  these  foreign  tales  were  the  first  successful 
short  stories  in  prose;  they  were  the  first  successful 
transcript  into  literature  of  the  men  and  women  of  the 
new  epoch. 

Painter's  stories  had  a  great  vogue.     Many  collections 
of  the  same  kind  followed,  and  some  writers  of  the  day, 
Gascoigne,    for  example,   went   so   far   as   to   put    forth 
original  narratives  purporting  to  be,  like  Painter's,  trans- 
lated from  the  Italian.     But,  unfortunately  for  the  short 
story,    though    fortunately    for    English    literature,    the 
men  of  original  talent  who  now  entered  the  Elizabethan 
|  field  were  dramatists,  not  story-tellers;  or,  if  they  were 
\both,  were  usually  more  vigorous  and  more  original  in 
\the  drama  than  in  fiction.     They  turned  prose  to  poetry, 
'and  raised  fiction  to  their  stage.     Romeo  and  Juliet,  The 
Merchant   of   Venice,   Othello,   are   edifices   much   more 
vast  and  infinitely  more  rich  than  the  novelle  from  which 
they  were  derived.     Thus  almost  from  the  moment  of  its 
introduction,  the  new  short  story  began  to  be  transformed 
into  another  type  of  literature  in  which  the  Time  Spirit  of 
the  Age,  so  it  proved,  was  to  find  itself  more  at  home. 

But  the  Elizabethan  short  stories  were  not  without  an 
excellence  and  a  literary  development  of  their  own. 
Though  far  less  successful  than  the  best  of  the  drama 
which  was  made  from  them,  these  narratives  held  many 
a  cupful  of  pleasure  for  our  ancestors,  and  may  for  us.  In 
the  beginning  they  were  good  stories  well  and  simply 
told,  with  the  ringing  plot  and  the  possible  characters 
which  give  permanency  of  value.  And  when  they  had  en- 
tered upon  the  strange  development  now  to  be  recounted, 
they  became,  at  the  expense  of  an  opportunity  to  become 
great  fiction,  almost  the  most  Elizabethan  of  Elizabethan 
literature. 


I 


The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance       17 

The  important  agents  in  the  literary  development  of  the 
Elizabethan  short  story  were  Painter,  Fenton,  Pettie,  Lyly, 
and  Greene.     Painter's  famous  Palace  was  followed  in 
1567  by  the  Tropical  Discourses  of  the  ambitious  young 
courtier,  Geoffrey  Fenton.     These  histories,  ten  in  num- 
ber, had  once  been  fairly  compact  novelle,  of  a  semi-his- 
torical  character^  included    in   a  collection   of   Lombard 
tales  by  Bandello.  a  fifteenth-century  resident  of  Milan. 
Before  they  came  to  Fenton's  eyes  they  had  been  worked 
over  by  Belleforftsf,    a  French  scholar  and  humanist  as- 
sociated with  the  famous  Pleiad  who  tried  to  make  over 
French  verse.     A  scholar  and  a  rhetorician,  Belleforest  had 
applied  to  these  simple  Italian  stories  all  the  art,  all  the 
knowledge,  and,  one  may  add,  all  the  pedantry,  which 
humanists  were  lavishing  upon  the  vulgar  tongues  in  the 
attempt  to  raise  them  in  dignity  and  in  ornament  to  the 
[level  of  classic  Latin.     Bandello's  straightforward  novelle 
J  emerged  like  a  plain  man  in  an  academic  gown  and  hood. 
*They  were  double  the  length,  stuck  full  of  elegant  similes, 
choice  allusions,  and  polite  discourses  on  the  subject  near- 
est the  heart  of  the  Renaissance,  the  proper  conduct  of 
life.     Now  it  was  ten  of  these  inflated  stories  that  Fen- 
Vton  took  over  into  English.     The  rhetorical  he  made  more 
rhetorical ;  to  the  discourses  he  added  discourses  of  his 
own  in  a  style  whose  pompous  sonority  showed  his  ambi- 
tion to  make  these  narratives  literature;  and,  so  doing,  he 
rteems  to  have  pointed  the  way  for  Elizabethan  fiction. 
[_The  Countess  of  Celant  was  probably  his  masterpiece.     It 
is  a  horrible   story   of   love   and   crime,   upon   which   is 
raised  a  framework  of  letters,  orations,  and  moral  com- 
ment,   the    whole    finished    off    with    classical    allusion, 
f  intricate    simile,    and    every    device    which    the    rheto- 
Vrician    could    command.     Tiresome,    yes,    but    interest- 
ing, too,   for  it  was  the  beginning  of  one  of  the  most 


1 8      The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance 

curious    diseases    with    which    a    literature    was    ever 
afflicted. 

The  next  important  step  is  to  be  found  in  a  highly 
curious  book  written  by  George  Pettie,  and  called   The 
Petite  Pallace  of  Pettie  His  Pleasure  (1576),  now  very 
rare.     But  it  is  more  than  a  literary  curiosity,  for  it  shows 
what  was  to  be  English  originality  in  this  form  of  fiction. 
f*  The  Petite  Pallace  is  another  story  collection.    Pettie  took 
V  his  plots  at  random,  with  a  preference  for  classic  stories, 
\  but,  as  was  the  custom  in  Italy,  worked  them  out  with 
r\  every  emphasis  upon  intrigues  in  love.     His  chief  interest, 
i      nowever,  was  in  ideas,  and  in  every  kind  of  argument  for 
V     which  his  story  could  give  an  excuse.     He  takes  the  old 
tale  of   Admetus  and   Alcest,    retelling  it   with   a  maze 
of  love-letters  in  which  the  plot  is  lost.     He  takes  the 
favorite  medieval  legend  of  Alexius,  and  makes  it  a  vehicle 
for  a  discussion  as  to  which  is  better,  study  and  medita- 
tion, or  a  wife.  \H_e  writes  of  Germanicus  and  Agrippina 
as  an  excuse  for  urging  virginity*!"?  Furthermore,  all  this 
is  in  a  highflown  style,  employing  every  rhetorical  device 
that  prose  allows,  and  some,  such  as  rhyme  and  regular 
rhythm,   which   even    Elizabethan   prose   did   not  permit. 
Pettie  was,  indeed,  Euphuistic;  and  his  more  popular  and 
more  famous  successor,  John  Lyly,  was  but  little  more  so 
in  the  book  which  gave  our  language  the  word. 

It  was  in  LylyV£w/>/zw££  ( 1579-1580)  that  this  strange 
development  reached  its  culmination.     Euphues  consists  of 
two  parts,  through  which  float  innumerable  letters,  argu- 
ments, similes,  and  allusions  upon  a  scarcely  moving  stream 
of  narrative.    Subtract  the  plot,  and  there  would  still  be  a 
.  great  mass  of  material,  such  as  we  might  put  into  con- 
^versational  essays  like  those  which  Lamb  liked  to  write. 
But  the  comparison  is  misleading,  for  no  age  since  the  • 
Elizabethan  could  have  conceived  such  rhetoricaJ_elabora«'T 


The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance       19 

tion  of  every  topic  popular  in  the  Renaissance  as  makes  up 
Lyly's  book,  fl  give  an  example,  chosen  from  what  Lyly 
seems  to  have  meant  to  be  concise  and  rapid  dialogue. 
The  lover  speaks:  "  Lady,  to  make  a  long  preamble  to 
a  short  sute,  wold  seeme  superfluous,  and  to  beginne 
abruptly  in  a  matter  of  so  great  waight,  might  be  thought 
absurde:  so  as  I  am  brought  into  a  doubt  whether  I 
should  offend  you  with  too  many  wordes,  or  hinder  my 
selfe  with  too  fewe.  She  not  staying  for  a  longer  treatise 
brake  me  offe  thus  roundly.  Gentle-man  a  short  sute  is 
soone  made,  but  great  matters  not  easily  graunted,  if  your 
request  be  reasonable  a  word  wil  serve,  if  not,  a  thousand 
will  not  suffice.  Therefore  if  ther  be  any  thing  that  I  may 
do  you  pleasure  in,  see  it  be  honest,  and  use  not  tedious 
discourses  or  colours  of  Rhethoricke,  which  though  they  be 
thought  courtly,  yet  are  they  not  esteemed  necessary:  for 
the  purest  Emerauld  shineth  brightest  when  it  hath  no 
oyle,  and  trueth  delighteth  best,  when  it  is  apparayled 
worst."  Alas,  "  discourses "  and  "  colours  of  Rhetho- 
ricke "  are  the  rule,  not  the  exception,  in  this  remarkable 
volume ! 

Clearly  the  story  element  is  on  the  way  to  extinction  in 
Daphnes;  and,  indeed,  with  Lyly,  and  his  chief  follower, 
lobert  Greene,  the  Elizabethan  imitation  of  the  Italian 
novella  came  to  an  end.  The  plots,  overweighted  with 
all  the  learning,  the  curiosity,  and  the  gossip  of  the 
Renaissance,  gave  way,  and  this  dropsical  short  story 
was  succeeded  by  essays,  by  collections  of  letters,  and  by 
those  studies  of  typical  "  characters  "  which  made  Over- 
bury  and  Earle  famous.  Nor  is  it  possible  to  assign  the 
origin  of  these  popular  forms  of  seventeenth  century 
literature  without  considering  that  to  some  extent  they 
crystallized  out  of  the  over-saturated  novella;  that  they 
were  a  successful  attempt  to  do  with  a  free  hand  what 


2O      The  Short  Story  of  the  Renaissance 

the  Euphuists  were  always  trying  at  pauses  in  their  stories. 
Thus,  to  resume,  the  promising  novella,  having  yielded 
tjp  its  plots  to  the  dramatists,  was  delivered  into  the  hands 
of  the  rhetoricians,  who  were  writers  for  a  society  just 
coming  to  consciousness.  Packed  with  the  spoils  of 
Renaissance  learning,  elaborated  into  preciosity,  made  to 
serve  for  everything  but  the  telling  of  a  story,  it  reached 
a  limit  of  expansion,  and  then  broke  down,  like  an  over- 
complex  molecule,  into  constituent  elements  which 
formed  new  and  more  stable  products.  Its  greatest 
^achievement  was  Euphues;  a  book  full  of  wit  and  sound 
sense  which  have  to  be  sought  for  through  the  most 
artificial  style  ever  invented,  and  a  story  almost  utterly 
devoid  of  narrative  interest. 

f"     In   fiction,   the   romance,   as  we   know   it   in   Lodge's 
\Rosalindj  succeeded  the  short  story.     The  real  world  of 
Ttaly  or  of  England,  which  had  grown  dim  in  Euphues, 
gave    place    to    an    imagined    scene    in    the    Orient,    the 
Antarctic,  or  the  coast  of  Bohemia;  and,  in  freeing  them- 
selves from  the  comparative  reality  of  the  Italian  novella, 
the  writers  also  freed  themselves  from  the  short  story.     In 
the  stories  of  Robert  Greene  one  can  watch  the  trans- 
formation from  compact  Italian  novella  to  loosely  plotted 
Elizabethan  romance. 


THE    SEVENTEENTH    CENTURY 

CThe  Euphuized  novella  went  out  of  fashion  at  about 
tne  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  in  those  years  when 
Shakespeare  was  satirizing  Euphuism  in  Henry  IV,  Part  I. 
The  short  romance  of  Ford,  Breton,  Greene,  and  Lodge, 
which,  in  a  sense,  sprang  from  it,  lasted  much  longer, 
was  popular,  indeed,  well  on  towards  the  end  of  the  sev- 


The  Short  Story  of  the   Renaissance       21 

enteenth  century.  The  so-called  "  character-books " 
reached  their  highest  development  in  the  early  years  oT 
this  century.  But  the  "  character,"  though  short,  is  not 
a  short  story.  Important  as  were  their  influence  upon  the 
work  of  the  eighteenth-century  essayists,  and,  indirectly, 
upon  the  eighteenth-century  novelists,  these  carefully 
studied  analyses  by  Overbury  and  Earle  of  flatterers, 
pedants,  hypocrites,  "  roaring  boys,"  or  "  a  meere  fellow  of 
an  house,"  had  no  plot,  no  progression,  were,  in  truth, 
expositions,  not  stories  at  all.  Yet  they  are  indicative  of 
the  change  which  in  the  next  creative  age  of  fiction  was  to 
come  over  short  and  long  stories  alike. 

But  before  we  enter  upon  that  eighteenth  century, 
when  creativeness  began  again  to  have  full  play,  we  must 
not  omit  to  note  one  strange  and  interesting  manifestation 
•of  the  vitality  of  the  Renaissance  short  story.  In  the  years 
between  the  death  of  Charles  I  and  the  Restoration  of 
1660,  the  vast  heroic  romances  of  the  French  writers  of 
fiction  began  to  be  popular  in  England.  With  them,  as 
another  sign  of  the  substitution  ot  French*  influence  for 
Italian  and  Spanish~  came  also  a  shorter  story,  more 
probable  than  the  extravagant  romances,  much  more 
unified.  ^Novels  "  ±hese  stories  seem  most  frequently  to 
have  been  called.  After  1660,  translations  of  them  be- 
came abundant ;  imitations  followed ;  and,  finally,  in 
Aphra  Behn's  Oroonoko  (1688),  a  truly  original  and 
really  excellent  example  came  from  an  English  pen. 
These  novels  averaged,  perhaps,  a  hundred  pages  in 
length,  and  in  these  pages  the  story  got  itself  finished, 
an  achievement  the  heroic  romance  could  hardly  boast  of. 
The  ruffled  gallants  who  exchange  compliments  with  their 
ladies  and  sword  thrusts  with  their  rivals,  the  tolerant 
morality,  the  elegance,  the  affectation,  the  decadent  chiv- 
alry, are  all  of  the  age  to  which  this  literature  belongs. 


22    Short  Story  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 

(But  in  form  these  stones  seem  to  have  been  a  true  de- 

ivelopment  of  the  Italian  novella.     They  preserve  its  uni- 

fied   plot  —  sometimes   specific   plots;    its   use   of    historic 

I    background  ;  and  its  assertion  of  reality.     They  are  more 

I   elaborate   in   incident;   indeed,   they   are   no   more   short 

t.  stories  in  any  strict  interpretation  of  the  term.     Oroonoko, 

for  example,  is  neither  a  novel  in  its  scope,  nor  a  short 

story  in  its  subject.     It  is  such  a  tale  as  Bandello  or  Boc- 

caccio would  have  told  with  the  brevity  and  compression  of 

the  short  story,  such  a  tale  as  the  French,  perhaps,  would 

call  a  nouvelle. 

The  history  of  this  "  novel  "  of  the  seventeenth  cen- 

tury; the  part  played  by  it  in  conveying  French  ideals  of 

gallantry  to  England  ;  its  approach  to  a  masterpiece  in 

Mrs.  Behn's  story  of  a  negro  prince  enslaved  in  the  new 

world  of  South  America;  its  unworthy  career  in  the  hands- 

of  profligate  women  in  early  eighteenth-century  England, 

who  wrote  with  the  indecency,  but  without  the  wit,  of  the 

contemporary  drama;  most  of  all  its  gift  to  the  true  novel 

of  Richardson  and  Fielding  of  the  idea  of  a  unified  plot: 

all  this  deserves  more  space  than  can  here  be  given.     For 

I  our  purpose,  it  is  sufficient  to  note  that  with  the  passing 

/  in  the  mid-eighteenth  century  of  this  fashion  of  writing 

Lcame  the  end  of  the  Renaissance  short  story. 

IV 

THE    SHORT   STORY   OF   THE    EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 


( 
/ 
1 


LONG  before  the  brief  "  novel  "  of  intrigue  had  ceased 
to  be  popular,  a  new  kind  of  short  narrative  had  sprung  up 
in  England,  and  this  new  variety  was  a  true  short  story. 
In  its  fundamental  characteristic  it  was  not  new  ;  it  was 


Short  Story  of  the  Eighteenth  Century    23 

f  but  a  reappearance  of  the  exemplum,  and  usually  of  the 

I    apologue  appearing  as  an  exemplum.     But  in  art,  and  in 

its  plot  and  characters,  it  differed  from  all  English  story 

/pes  before  or  since. 
The  contributing  elements  which  made  possible  this 
new  experiment  in  fiction  were  all  present  by  1700.  It 
was  in  the  decades  before  the  turn  of  the  century  that  a 
Diacritical  spirit  began  to  show  itself  in  English  literature. 
\Vriters  such  as  Dryden,  Congreve,  Swift,  Pope,  are  the 
products  of  a  peaceful,  settled,  quite  civilized  society.  In 
its  essence  their  literary  work,  which  was  largely  satirical, 
may  be  considered  as  a  survey  of  English  civilization  to 
determine  who  is  fit  to  live  in  such  society,  who  is  not. 
This  critical  attitude  towards  life  brought  with  it  an  in- 
creased interest  in  the  manners  of  the  town,  where  civ- 
ilization was  more  and  more  centering,  and  opened  wide 
the  gates  for  a  study  of  morals  in  fiction.  Next  came  a 
ter  realism  in  narrative  art,  most  strikingly  manifested 
in  the  work  of  a  journalist  like  Defoe,5  but,  after  all,  only 
the  reflex  of  a  strong  reaction  against  religious  and  ro- 
mantic enthusiasms,  i  Ls&t,  but  this  came  later,  and  began 
not  much  before  ryosjiwas  a  revolt  against  the  rakishness 
which  had  been  so  fashionable  in  Restoration  society,  and 
the  unregulated  habits  which  accompanied  it,  a  revolt 
which  was  not  so  much  against  immorality  as  against 
bad  taste  in  the  conduct  of  lifeJ 

These  three  influences  are  all  to  be  noted  in  what  were 
perhaps  the  most  notable  literary  productions  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  and  in  the  new  short  story  which  they 
contained.  In  The  Tatler  (1709-11),  and  in  The 
Skrrtntnr  (1711-14),  where  the  periodical  essay  took 
shape,  the  short  story  is  often  only  imperfectly  distin- 

*  For  a  discussion  of  Defoe  as  writer  of  realistic  short  nar- 
rative, see  The  Short  Story  in  English,  pp.  184-188. 


24    Short  Story  of  the  Eighteenth  Century 

guished  from  the  graceful  discussions  of  the  quirks  and 
quibbles  of  life  which  count  for  so  much  in  these  charm- 
ing papers.  Even  so,  it  is  clearly  something  new  in  nar- 
rative. A  pendant  to  the  essay,  oftentimes  no  more  than 
an  anecdote  telling  how  Flavia  and  her  mother,  Honoria, 
compete  in  the  game  of  love  (Spectator  91),  it  preserves 
in  one  crystal  drop  an  essence  of  Queen  Anne  manners  in 
a  solution  of  human  nature.  It  is  studied  from  life,  yet 
told  for  the  lesson  it  carries.  The  famous  De  Coverley 
papers  are  not  the  best  examples.  They  are  too  rich  in 
imagination,  too  little  shaped  to  the  purposes  of  didacticism, 
to  be  typical  of  this  periodical  short  story.  The  novel 
with  its  wealth  of  characters,  and  broad  field  unrestricted 
by  the  need  of  driving  home  a  moral  reflection,  was  the 
goal  towards  which  they  tended.  But  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  little  narratives  in  these  two  famous  periodicals, 
and  in  the  many  succeeding  imitations,  which  are  so  well 
directed  towards  a  chastening  of  the  follies  of  the  day,- 
that,  although  stories  in  miniature,  and  rich  neither  in 
characters  nor  in  plot,  their  brevity  in  no  sense  brings 
triviality  with  it. 

Addison's  are  the  ripest  and  most  graceful  of  these. 
And  when  he  borrowed  the  Oriental  apologue  from  the 
wealth  of  Oriental  literature  then  rolling  into  England, 
or  imitated  it,  as  in  The  Vision  of  Mirza  (Spectator 
I59)»  he  was  at  his  best  in  narrative.  Yet  the  Eastern 
tales  of  The  Spectator  are  necessarily  deprived  of  the  close 
application  to  contemporary  England  which  was  so  char- 
acteristic elsewhere  of  this  short  story.6 

6  In  all  the  short  narrative  of  the  period  the  Oriental  apo- 
logue, borrowed  or  invented,  is  to  be  found  beside  the  English 
tales.  It  differs  from  the  other  periodical  narratives  only  in 
this:  that  while  the  English  stories  attempt  to  mirror  English 
life,  the  Oriental  deal  with  universal  human  nature  under 


Short  Story  of  the  Eighteenth  Century    25 

f~  But  it  was  Dr.  Johnson  who  crystallized  this  apologue 
of  the  periodicals.  His  stories  in  TJie__Rambler  (1750) 
are  the  finest  example  of  this  minor  art.  In  the  Lingering 
Expectation  of  an  Heir  (Rambler  73),  or  the  bitteT^ahT 
of  Misella  (Kambler  170-171),  the  narrative  and  the 
-moral  exactly  balaflte,  each  lending  point  to  the  other; 
and  one  reads  with  pleasure  and  profit  a  well-balanced 
story  which  would  never  have  been  written  save  for  the 
essay — often  a  dull  one — which  accompanies  it.  The  art 
was  minor,  and  yet,  in  its  lesser  way,  it  was  admirable. 
Nowhere  has  reflection  upon  human  nature  been  more 
perfectly  and  more  unpretentiously  embodied  in  narrative 
form.  The  best  of  modern  short  stories,  with  all  their 
advantages  of  vividness,  study  of  personality,  and  nov- 
elty of  plot,  may  envy  the  measured  adaptation  of  means 
to  end,  and  the  clear  and  simple  development  of  these 
eighteenth-century  apologues. 

The  successors  of  Dr.  Johnson  in  this  art  of  the  didactic 
short  story  were  such  men  as  Hawkesworth  in  The 
Adventurer.- Goldsmith  in  his  Citizen  of  the  World^  and 
many  of  lesser  Tame  and  lesser  excellence.  In  general,  it 
was  in  close  connection  with  the  periodical  essay  fhaf  tfy» 
most  perfect  work  was  accomplished^  There  are,  it  is 
true,  many  stories  of  independent  composition,  but 
either,  like  Rasselas  and  Vathek,  they  are  scarcely  short 
stories,  or  they  are  of  ipfprinr  armn'r  mpn't-  Natu- 
rally, then,  the  history  of  this  short  storv  continues  as  long 
as  the  periodical  essay  lasted,  which  was  until  the  first 
years  of  the  nineteenth  century,  and  ends  when  the  ro- 
mantic revolt  against  the  eighteenth-century  attitude 

a  thin  disguise  of  Eastern  names,  customs,  and  setting.  To- 
gether, as  they  appear  in  the  work  of  the  periodical  essayists, 
they  make  up  what  may  be  called  the  eighteenth-century  type  of 
the  short  itory,  §e$  Th(  Short  Stpry  in  English,  pp.  196-302. 


26      Short  Story  and  Romantic  Movement 

towards  life  had  conquered  literature.  )The  custom  of 
didacticism  is  reflected  strongly  in  the  highly  moral  tales 
which  were  a  part  of  Hannah  More's  Cheap  Repository 
Tracts  (1795-98),  and  less  obviously  in  the  very  dif- 
ferent kind  of  moral  story  which  Missjldgeworth  wrote 
in  the  first  decades  of  the  next  centuryj  But,  on  the  • 
whole,  the  type,  as  established  by  Addison  and  Steele, 
and  perfected  by  Dr.  Johnson,  continues  with  very  little 
change  until  its  extinction,  and  is  not  successfully  imitated, 
or  in  its  own  field  rivaled,  by  the  moral  stories  which 

(succeeded  it.     The  reason  for  its  relative  excellence  is  the 
reason,  also,  for  the  narrowness  of  its  development.     In 
)  this  century  the  true  English  novel  had  started  upon  its 
|  glorious  career.    To  this  novel  the  narratives  of  the  peri- 
lodicals  had  lent  a  study  of  manners,  as  the  old  novella 
had  contributed  the  idea  of  a  unified  plot.     The  novel 
developed   freely.     But   the  short  story,   by   custom,   re- 
mained a  pendant  to  the  essay;  was  restricted  to  the  pur- 
poses of   illustration.     In   this   age,   as  never   before   or 
since,  it  was  bound  up  to  the  service  of  didacticism.     Its 
range  was  small.     Its  success  was  remarkable. 


THE  SHORT  STORY  AND  THE  ROMANTIC  MOVEMENT 


THE  short  story  of  the  nineteenth  century,  most  dis- 
tinctive and  most  fertile  of  all  short-story  varieties,  was 
a  very  direct  result  of  the  so-called  romantic  movement 
in  English  temperament  and  English  literature,  a  move- 
ment which,  gathering  headway  all  through  the  eighteenth 
century,  reached  its  height  in  the  days  of  Scott,  Byron,  and 
Keatsf/  It  was  in  pursuit  of  romanticism  in  the  short 


Short  Story  and  Romantic  Movement     27 

story  that  America  first  produced  fiction  of  excellent 
merit.  It  was  in  the  romantic  short  story,  which  Amer- 
icans were  instrumental  in  perfecting,  that  the  most  in- 
teresting technical  victories  of  nineteenth-century  fiction 
were  woox 

The  shaping  influences  were,  if  one  treats  the  subject 
broadly,  three  in  number.  First,  and  by  far  the  most  im- 
portant— indeed,  a  true  creative  force — the  aforesaid  ro- 
mantic movement,  generated  in  England,  reinforced  from 
Germany,  and  triumphing  in  the  English  poetry  of  the 
first  decades  of  the  centuryL*»It  was  the  pressure  of  this 
romantic  emotionalism,  this  new  feeling  towards  life,  upon 
all  forms  of  activity,  but  most  of  all  upon  literature,  which 
caused  the  new  short  storyC^Next  in  importance  was  a 
circumstance  which  strangely  illustrated  the  energy  with 
which  this  romanticism  sought  an  outlet  in  fiction.  In 
poetry,  both  lyrical  and  narrative,  romanticism  was  emi- 
nently successful,  and  gave  to  English  literature  such  mas- 
terpieces as  the  passionate  odes  and  narratives  of  Keats, 
the  weird  tales  of  Coleridge,  and  the  adventurous  stories 
of  Byron.  In  the  novel  it  was  no  less  successful,  with 
the  Waverley  series  as  a  supreme  achievement.  But  the_ 
romantic  short  story  in  prose,  except  for  the  stately  tale<T 
ol  Irving,  which  were  modeled  upon  forms  of  an  earlier 
epoch,  failed,  and,  in  general,  failed  dismally,  because  it 
lacked  art.  And  it  was,  in  a  senset  this  failure  which 
made  way  for  the  commanding  genius  of  Edgar  Allan  *PoeT 
ally,  and  this  is  a  minor,  but  a  very  practical  considera- 
tion, the  vogue  uf  periodical  literature  increased  with  every 
decade  of  the  new  century.  The  periodical  p^ay.,  with 
its  included  short  story,  had  passed,  but  the  magazine. 
w h ich  likewise  had  its  birth  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
was  more  elastic,  and  grew.  It  increased  enormously  in 
scope  and  influence  in  tne  early  years  of  the  century, 


28   .  Short  Story  and  Romantic  Movement 

and  to  it  was  added  about  1825  a  new  (and  a  bad)  peri- 
odical fashion,  that  of  the  annual,  a  Christmas  giftbook 
made  up  of  expensive  engravings,  sentimental  poems,  short 
familiai  essays,  usually  trivial,  and,  most  of  all,  short 
stories.  That  the  vogue  of  the  short  story  was  a  pro- 
vocative of  magazine  and  annual,  is  probable ;  that  the  ex- 
istence of  magazine  and  annual  was  a  stimulus  to  short- 
story  production,  no  reader  who  seeks  the  place  of  first 
publication  of  the  famous  tales  of  the  nineteenth  century 
can  doubt. 

I""1    The  romantic  movement  gave  a  fillip  to  fiction,  and 
\  especially   to   fiction   which   dealt   with   love,   adventure, 
\horror,  pathos — all  the  typically  romantic  themes.     The 
first  results  for  the  short  story  were,  to  put  it  mildly,  un- 
fortunate.    They  are  to  be  found   in  the  magazines  of 
the   Twenties   and   a  little   earlier,   where   an   increasing 
number  of  short  tales  oj  strained  love,  of  mawkish  grief, 
of   wild    adventure,   and    especially   of   morbid    or   exag- 
gerated horror  begin   to  usurp  the  pages  given  over  to 
jiarrative.     When  the  fashionable  and  expensive^annuals, 
The  Amaranth,  The  Keepsake,  The  Forget-me-not,  come 
into   being,    the   abundance   nf   these   bad    rnmiinfic^strm'ps 
Js  positively  alarming.     They  seem  to  be  experimental  in 
nature :   experiments   in   the   attempt   to   make   the   short 
story  carry  the  romantic  spirit,  and   not  very  Successful 
•y  experiments,  even  the  best  of  them?     They  laclc  body, 
land  they  lack  art.     There  were  other  experimental  stories 
also:  the  combination  of  reflective  essay  and  gentle  nar- 
rative upon  which  Lamb  was  trying  his  delicate  hand ; 
De  Quincey's  more  sonorous  attempts  in  meditative  ro- 
mance;  the   wise    Miss   Mitford's   slight   but   charming 
studies   in   village   life.     All   of   these   experimenters   re- 
vealed the  new  spirit  of  romanticism  in  some  form,  but, 
'See  The  Short  Story  in  English,  pp.  212-216. 


Short  Story  and  Romantic  Movement     29 

whatever  else  they  may  have  accomplished(jione  of  them 
can  be  said  to  have  established  a  fertile  type  of  short  storyT) 

Indeed,  in  the  years  between  the  beginning  of  this  move- 
ment and  Poe's  first  tale  in  1833,  only  two  writers  really 
succeeded  with  the  unadulterated  short  story.  One  of 
these  was  Scott,  and  though  his  Wandering  Willie's  Tale 
(1824)  is  a  masterpiece  of  its  Kind,  it  is  his  only  notable 
contribution.  His  unities  were  larger.  But  the  other, 
\Vashing1-""  1"""^  lg  *rct  "*  °l'  a  writer  of  short 
stories.  In  the  decade  between  1820  and  1830,  he  ac- 
complished what  his  many  contemporaries  of  the  maga- 
zines failed  in ;  he  took  the  romantic  material  of  which  his 
generation  was  so  fond:  the  spooks,  the  piarvplons  hai^" 
penings,  hopeless  love\  "  temperament."  "  atmosphere  " 
generally — and  made  it  into  admirable  short  stories.  He 
succeeded  where  so  many  of  his  fellow  workers  failed,  be- 
cause .he  had  four  qualities,  in  one  or  more  of  which  most 
of  his  rivals  seemed  to  be  lacking:  he  knew  a  good  shortV/ 
story  plot  when  he  saw  one;  he  knew  how  to  develop  iij1 
so  as  to  preserve  a  perfect  proportion  of  parts  to  the  whole : 

could  grasp  character ;  and  he  had  a  sense  of  humoi\j) 
The  humorous,  reflective  writers,  Lamb  and  Mitford,  had 
possessed  little  sense  of  plotXthe  romantic  writers  had 
been  endowed  with  nothing  but  romance^ 

It  is  the  admirable  blend  of  humor  and  romance  which 
keeps  Rip  Van  Winkle  and  The  Legend  of  Sleepy  Hollow 
eternally  fresh  and  eternally  popular,  while  the  lurid 
tales  of  mysterious  horror  which  accompanied  them  rest 
undisturbed  in  the  annuals  and  magazines.  If  you  doubt 
the  importance  of  humor,  read  some  of  Irving's  un- 
humorous^  over-romantic  stories,  such  as  The  Young 
Italian,  i  But  form  also  played  its  part,  form  which  was 
just  what  the  short  story  of  this  period  almost  universally 
lacked.  Form  in  the  short  story  is  not  easily  made  mani- 


30     Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story 

fest,  and  as  we  must  take  it  up  at  some  length  when  we 
come  to  Poe,  we  pass  lightly  here.     Yet  all  readers  recog- 
nize grace  in  telling  a  tale,  and  can  see  the  careful  pro- 
portioning,   due    emphasis,    and    laudable    restraint,    of 
Irving's  two  famous  stories.     Indeed,  that  lovable  writer 
(was  too  good  a  student  of  the  typical  master  of  the  cen- 
Xury  of  restraint  and  proportion,  Addison,  to  be  led  astray 
£>ften  by  romanticism,  as  were  so  many  others  of  his  time. 
His  task  was  easier  than  theirs,  for  he  filled  his  romantic 
plots  with  the  good  stuff  of  humorous  character  observa- 
tion, while  they  were  striving  merely  to  produce  a  ro- 
mantic effect  with  their  narrative,  something  difficult  of 
accomplishment  until  Poe  had  shown  the  way.     But  the 
intrinsic  difficulty  of  that  task  is  measured  by  the  few  who, 
in  his  time,  were  able  to  give  a  romantic  short  story  worth 
or  weight.     He  told  the  classic  American  stories,  and  he 
I  has  given  us  one  of  the  few  great  characters  in  American 
[fiction,  but  the  lesson  he  learned  from  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury he  could  not  pass  onward.     He  established  no  school 
of  the  short  story,  and  bad  romanticism  in  small  pack- 
ages continued  to  stuff  the  annuals  and  the  magazines. 


VI 


IRVING,  it  would  seem,  was  too  classic,  too  reserved  for 
a  generation  craving  excitement  in  its  fiction.  To  judge 
from  the  bulk  of  what  was  published,  the  age  wanted 
something  more  purely  romantic  than  Rip  or  The  Legend 
of  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  this  desire  seemed  to  grow.  As 
has  been  said  above,  the  periodicals  of  the  time  are  full 


Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story     31 

of  hideous  attempts  to  thrill  the  very  nerve  of  romance 
itself.  Stories  of  awful  death,  of  pathetic  bereavement. 
of  mysterious  adventure,  follow  upon  one  another  in 
mawkish  or  in  lurid  succession.  And  artistically  they 
are  all  failures^  They  try  to  achieve  in  prose  the  sheer 
romance  which  Coleridge,  Byron,  Keats  had  grasped  in 
verse  —  and  fail  so  markedly  that  one  wonders  whether  the 
slim  young  ladies  who  lean  upon  tombstones  or  simper 
over  rosQ  hedges  in  the  steel  engravings  of  the  annuals, 
could  have  been  more  than  mildly  excited  by  such  hys- 
terical pages.  ..  . 

Romantic  periods  are  very  prone  to  lack  a  sense  of 
bnmor.  A  sense  of  humor  is  notably  lacking  in  these 
vstories.  This,  however,  is  not  a  serious  charge,  for  the 
purest  romance  is  also  deficient  in  this  quality,  does  not 
need  it,  in  fact.  The  trouble  with  the  sensational  stories 
of  the  Twenties  and  the  Thirties  was  not  that  they  were 
unhumorous,  but  that.  j)eing  unhumomiis1  fhp 


sufficiently  romantic  to  make  up  for  the  absence  of  the 
good  material  of  human  nature  \yhich  Trvingi  Scott,  or 
Eamb  could  supply.  They  depended  entirely  upon  a 
romantic  effect,  and  this  effect  —  it  seems  to  us  —  they  did 
not  attain. 

The  people  wanted  it  ;  that  is  clear  from  the  number  of 
attempts.  Furthermore,  to  judge  from  the  strained 
pathos,  the  exaggerated  mysticism,  the  forced  horror  of 
the  product,  they  wanted  it  "  good  and  strong."  There 
are  many  signs  of  decadent  taste  in  the  romanticism  of 
betweenf  say.  1810  and  184.0.  There  is  a  touch  of  it  in 
the  lusciousness  of  Tennyson's  early  poems;  still  more  in 
the  romantic  novel;  most  of  all,  perhaps,  in  short  nar- 
rative. New  effects  are  sought  out  to  thrill  jaded  nerves, 
the  short  story  which  now  appeared  was  successful  be- 
it  gave  the  greatest  of  new  effects,  because  it  made 


32     Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story 

a  successful  appeal  to  the  taste  of  a  decadent  romanti- 
cism. 

This  new  short  story  was  practically  an  invention  of 
>•  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  By  this  I  do  not  mean  that  he  created 
the  modern  short  story  out  of  nothing,  and,  as  the  shorter 
catechism  has  it,  all  very  good.  On  the  contrary,  nearly  all 
the  materials,  most  of  the  subjects,  all  the  interests,  were 
there;  but  it  was  left  to  him  to  combine  them,  or,  in 
other  words,  to  devise  a  means  of  telling.  His.  work  in 
the  short  story,  which  began  apparently  about  1832,  fol- 
I  lowed  naturally  from  the  response  of  his  genius  to  the 
]  desire  of  a  public  which  wished  a  stronger  variety  of  ro- 
^nanticism.  His  success  was  the  result  of  his  knowledge 
that  an  impression  made  strongly  upon  the  intellect  of  the 
reader  was  the  best  means  of  exciting  romantic  thrills;  and 
of  his  discovery  of  the  means  for  conveying  this  impression 
through  a  short  story.  The  Germans  of  the  Romantic 
School,  especially  Hoffmann  and  Tieck,  had  gone  one  step 
beyond  the  hair-raising  but  not  soul-stirring  stories  of  the 
English  writers.  They  had  put  an  idea  into  their  nar- 
ratives and  given  them  worth  and  carrying  power.  But 
Poe  went  further.  He  drove  home  his  idea  with  a  new 
kind  of  story-telling,  and  so  presented  a  romantic  world 
asking  for  stronger  stimulants  with  a  completely  new  sen- 
satiori. 

(There  was  every  reason  why  he  should  wish  to  do  this. 
His  work,  as  I  have  tried  to  show,  was  a  natural  outcome 
of  the  romantic  movement.  AnA  ^  jyiU-  later  be^eid- 
dent,  it  jwas  particularly  natural  in  America.  Some  one 
would  have  done  it  later,  though  probably  far  less  com- 
pletely, if  Poe  had  not.  This  remembered,  the  reader 
is  less  likely  to  be  shocked  when  told  that  this  much- 
heralded  short  story  was  not  new  in  subject,  (jits  materi- 
als were  just  the  themes  of  decadent  romanticism,  and 


Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story    33 

the  by-products  of  transcendental  philosophy  which  were 
familiar  in  less  imaginative  form  to  all  readers  of  the  Eng- 
lish romantic  poets  and  the  German  story-tellers.  It  was 
really  new  only  in  technique./ 

What  was  this  much  talked  of  technique  of  Poe  ?     Just 

/thisfPoe  carried  to  the  nth  power  an  old  principle  of  nar- 
ratiVe,  namelyfjsuspepse^  Feeling  that  the  romantic  short 
stories  in  prose  of  his  day  did  not  get  results  (so  one 
guesses),  be  chose  befojehand  (this  he  says  himself)  a 
certain  effect  which  he  washed  to  make,  and  then  held 
the  readej^in  suspense^  jintil,  at  the  end  ofhis^slary,  and 
with  all  the  force  of  accumulated  interest,  the  desired 
effect  was~produceJ^  The  means  he  used  can  easily  be 

^descnbeTf,  amT  were  easily  imitated,  although  never,  per- 
haps, with  a  success  like  the  master's.  Brieflv^tfley  corir 
sisted  of  a  double  device.  First  the  interest  was  shifted  to... 
the  end  of  the  story,  which|  was  accomplished  by  making 
e'ach  sentence  from  the  first  on  point  forwards,  sometimes 
in  word,  sometimes  by  suggestion,  to  that  climactic  mo- 
ment which  was  to  he  the  sum  ot  the  story.  "  I  he  thou- 
SaTTcf  injuries  of  Fortunate  I  had  borne  as  best  I  could," 
he  begins  in  The  Cask  of  Amontillado,  and  never  for  an 
instant  suffers  the  reader's  attention  to  waver  from  tht 
approaching,  unknown  tragedy  which  he  feels  is  to  end 

Next — and  it  is  here  rather  than  in  structure  that  Poe 
excels  his  myriad  fnllnwers-^ffrerq  js  manifest  a  care  that 
nil  thy  attributes  of  the  story,  characters,  setting,  and  most 
of  all  the  style,  should  lend  their  suggestive  powers  {n. 
the  desired  effect!  That  sonorous  style  which  Poe  could 
practise  whert  3t  his  best,  which  in  his  solemn  stories, 
where  these  technical  refinements  are  most  essential,  was 
most  free  from  the  bad  taste  to  which  he  was  sometimes 
liable,  was,  perhaps,  the  great  factor  in  this  second  means 


34    Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story 

of  heightening  suspense.  It  is  like  the  orchestral  accom- 
paniment without  which  the  artificialities  of  the  opera  may 
sometimes  appear  forced  and  crude.  J 

Poe's  approach  to  this  consummate  art,  or  artifice,  for 
it  partakes  of  the  nature  of  both,  can  still  be  followed, 
though  one  must  guess  at  the  earlier  stages.  He  began, 
as  I  said,  by  wishing  to  accomplish  in  prose  what  others 
had  accomplished  in  verseT^  This  was  the  intense  excita- 
tion  of  the  emotions,  such  an  excitation  as  roiiows  "upon 
the  reading  of  the  fine  sensuous  poetry  of  the  romantic 
period,  notably  such  verse  as  is  to  be  found  m  ^llie  An- 
VLariner  of  Coleridge,  the  odes  and  the  tales  of 
Keats,  and  the  lyrics  of  T'oe  himself.  This  poetry  did 
what  the  novelists  and  the  short-story  writers  of  the 
Twenties  and  Thirties  in  England  and  America  had  been 
so  often  trying  to  do.  It  gave  a  new  sensation.  It  struck 
in  to  the  mind  and  the  heart.  Poe,  to  judge  by  results, 
wished  to  do  as  much  with  prose ;  or,  rather,  he  wished 
to  do  more,  for  the  greater  freedom  of  prose  narrative  of- 
fered great  possibilities  to  the  man  who  could  learn  to 
control  rE2  One  segs  what  appears  to  be  an  experiment 
in  his  early  story \The  MS.  Found  in  a  Bottle^(  1833)."* 
This  narrative  is  a  descriptive  sketch  rather  than  a  story. 
It  recounts  an  adventuV^,  and,  as  there  is  no  real  plot 
to  be  developed  to  a  solution,  the  problem  of.  structure 
is  not  entirely  worked  out.^*The  subordination  of  inci- 
dent to  climax,  which  is  so  notable  in  the  later  stories,  is 
not  so  apparent  as  the  art  of  tone.  Description,  char- 
acter, style,  are  all  chosen  to  contribute  to  the  final  im- 
pression of  horror,  so  that  this  narrative,  and  the  later 
Descent  into  the  Maelstrom  (1841)  which  resembles  it, 

I  but  is  better  done,  are  like  perfect,  if  somewhat  dismal, 

{harmonies  of  somber  purples  and  browns. 

The  next  step  forward  seems  to  have  been  taken  in 


Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story    35 

Berenice  (1835),  a  story  which  would  be  atrocious,  or, 
what  is  worse,  ridiculous,  if  it  were  not  so  admirably  done. 
Here,  also,  the  art  of  tone  is  perfectly  manifested.  Every 
detail  of  the  story,  not  less  than  the  style  in  which  it  is 
written,  suggests  the  morbid  melancholy  of  a  diseased 
imagination.  But  the  new  art  of  structure  is  also  mani- 
fest^  The  incidents  of  a  plot  in  which  the  disgusting  hero 
is  obsessed  by  the  beautiful  teeth  of  his  cousTn,  and  ravisnes 
them  from  her  corpse  in  the  grave,  all  point  forward  to 
theTiorrible  conclusion,  all  /hold  the  reader  in  an  artfully 
contrived  suspense^  Berenice  is  an  example  of  decadent 
romanticism.^flt  can  never  be  ranked  as  the  highest  art, 
but  its  author  shows  that  he  has  solved  the  problem  of 
making  one  vivid  impression  with  the  short  story. 

Berenice  seems  to  mark  Poe's  mastery  of  his  technique, 
but  it  is  in  later  stories,  and  far  better  ones,  such  as  Ligeia 
(1838),  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Usher  ( 1839),  or  The 
Cask  of  Amontillado  (1846),  that  it  developed  its  full 
capability.  Let  me  repeat  that  only  the  art  of  perfect 
tone^  which  had  already  been  used  in  poetry,  and  the  art  of 
suspense,  which  had  been  long  familiar  in  narrative,  are 
employed  in  the  technique  of  these  remarkable  stories. 
But  Poe's  adaptation  and  refinement  of  these  arts  for  ap- 
plication in  the  short  story  are  so  skilful  that  the  result 
marks  an  epoch  for  fiction  generally.  The  Fall  of  the 
House  of  Usher,  for  example:  how  the  gloomy  mood  of 
the  traveler,  the  desolation  of  the  House,  the  peculiar 
super-attentiveness  of  the  brother,  the  morbid  mysterious- 
ness  of  the  sister,  the  flavor  of  the  old  romance,  all  merge, 
all  point  to  the  catastrophe,  are  all  explained,  and  justified 
in  their  effect  when  overstrained  nerves  and  weakened 
masonry  giving  way  together,  the  House  cracks  apart,  and, 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  blood-red  sun,  slides  into  the  gloomy 
tarn!  Imagine  this  story  told  otherwise  than  by  sus- 


36     Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story 

pense,  a  perfect  tone,  and  a  complete  concentration:  for 
instance,  as  Irving  (who  thought  like  thoughts,  though 
less  morbid  and  furiously  intense)  would  have  told  it;  or 
dragged  out  by  the  Germans  (who  conceived  such  scenes 
and  such  mentalities)  through  an  interminable  plot  to  a 
slow  conclusion.  No,  in  prose  at  least,  it  was  only  as 
Poe  wrote  that  the  effect  could  have  been  won. 

S~~    It  would  be  interesting  to  discourse  of  Poe's  characters, 
(    of  how  false  they  are  to  life,  and  how  true  to  the  ultra- 

^romanticist's  imagination  of  life.  It  would  be  interesting 
to  write  of  Poe's  scenes  and  plots;  his  thought,  his  knowl- 
edge, and  all  that  goes  to  make  up  the  substance  of  his. 
short  stories.  However,  modern  criticism,  in  general, 
seems  to  be  agreed  that  it  is  not  the  characters  which  are 
valuable  in  Poe's  stories,  except  in  so  far  as  they  reflect 
Poe's  state  of  mind ;  or  the  scenes,  except  for  their  beauty ; 

/  or  the  thought,  except  as  it  explains  the  stories ;  or  the  plot ; 

I    but,  rather,  jusf~the  vivid  emotional  effects  which  these 

^narratives  make  upon  the  least  imaginative  readers.     In 

Cjther  words,  their  value  is  artistic  in  the  most  limited 
sense?"}  But  these  pfff/ts  were  made  possible  by  technique, 
andTuierefore,  in  so  limited  a  chapter,  to  technique  we 
mUSiM:onrine  ourselves'  Thanks  to  it,  Poe~  w  as""able  to 
control  the  products  of  his  superheated  imagination,  re- 
duce them  to  order,  and  make  them  comprehensible  by 
less  intense  (and  less  morbid)  imaginations.  A  night- 
mare fancy  of  the  plague-spirit,  incarnate  and  walking 
among  men,  when  harnessed  to  his  short  story  became  the 
orderly  and  sufficiently  awful  Masque  of  the  Red  Death. 
Vague  speculations  on  the  power  of  the  immortal  will, 
when  bcund  down  to  his  story-form  became  effective 
in  the  solemn  and  impressive  Ligeia.  Grant  the  urge 
of  decadent  romanticism  towards  all  that  was  super- 
normal and  sensational ;  grant  Poe's  sense  of  the  beautiful, 


Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story    37 

and  his  tremendous,  if  morbid,  imagination ;  grant  the 
stimulus  of  German  transcendental  thought,  which  drove 
directly  towards  the  romanticist's  conception  of  the  mind 
of  man;  and  then  give  credit  for  the  very  great  portion 
of  his  success  still  unaccounted  for  to  his  discovery  of  how 
to  perfect  narrative  suspense. 

The  results  of  this  discovery  are  not  confined  to  the 
use  which  Poe  made  of  it.  They  are  to  be  found  in  the 
various  services  to  which  this  new  way  of  telling  a  short 
story  was  applied  after  Poe  had  perfected  it,  and  these 
must  be  carefully  differentiated  from  his  own  practice. 
Let  us  leave  this  development  for  discussion  in  later  sec- 
tions, and  complete  this  brief  survey  by  consideration  of 
another  kind  of  short  story  in  which  Poe's  work  again  was 
revolutionary.  The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue 
(1841),  The  Gold-Bus  (1843),  and  The  Purloined  Let- 
ter (1845),  belong  to  the  so-called  detective-story  class, 
although  a  detective  figures  in  only  two  of  them.  What 
really  relates  them  is  the  chain  of  reasoning  which  binds 
together  each  story,  which  makes  each  plot.  Given  a 
scrap  of  parchment  written  upon  in  cipher,  to  prove  that 
the  cipher  refers  to  buried  treasure,  and  to  find  the  treas- 
ure— that  is  The  Gold-Bug.  Given  a  murder  mysteri- 
ously done,  to  find  the  murderer — that  is  The  Murders 
in  the  Rue  Morgue.  No  need  to  run  through  the  nar- 
ratives, or  to  recommend  them.  Fortunately  the  taste  for 
detective  stories  is  more  persuasive  than  tobacco.  We 
all  know  them,  and  have  probably  a  dim  impression  that 
stories  of  this  general  nature  had  been  done  before. 
The  impression  is  correct.  Poe  did  not  discover  thit  a 
process  of  reasoning  makes  a  good  narrative.  Others  jfvere 
ahead  of  him  there.  But  he  did  learn  how  to  perfe^  the 
story  into  which  such  a  process  can  be  made. 

The  principle  he  worked  with  was  again  suspensfe^  Ob- 


38     Development  of  Romantic  Short  Story 

serve,   for  example,    The  Gold-Bug.     There  is  first  the 
mysterious  insect,  and  then  the  mysterious  actions  of  the 
finder,  and   then  the  mystery  of  the  parchment,  and  so 
on,  until  the  hero  at  last  satisfies  our  curiosity  and  ends 
the  story.     This  suspense,  it  is  true,  though  it  is  like  the 
suspense  of  the  impressionistic  stories,  is  not  used  for  the 
same  purpose.     No  vivid  impression  of  an  intense  emo- 
tion is  planned  for  in  these  detective  tales ;  the  author  cares 
only  to  increase  the  reader's  interest  with  each  step  of  the 
plot.     And  although  they  have  given  rise  to  a  numerous 
progeny,  they  have  scarcely  been  so  influential  as  the  im- 
pressionistic short  story,  which  brought  eventually  not  one, 
but  many  provinces  to  fiction.     However,  it  is  an  error 
to  consider  these  two  varieties  of  Poe  stories  separately. 
/  Both  sprang  from  one  imagination  and  one  mind.     The 
/  stories  of  ratiocination  reveal  the  keen  sense  of  cause  and 
\  effect  which  alone  could  have  made  Poe  able  to  devise  the 
/  construction  upon  which  Usher  and  Eleanora  depend  for 
S    their  success. 

Of  Poe  the  man,  Poe  the  stylist,  and  Poe  the  student 
*  of  supernormal  human  nature  there  is,  unfortunately,  n6 
room  here  to  speak.     Again,  his  lack  of  humor  and  his 
occasional  bad  taste,  although  they  affect  slightly,  if  at 
all,  his  masterpieces,  are  instances  of  characteristics  per- 
sonal to  him,  or  belonging  to  his  time,  which  should  ac- 
company a  complete  analysis  of  his  work.     But  whatever 
/  may   be   the  final   opinion   of   the   critics   who   now   so 
I   clamorously  disagree,  one  fact  should  be  clear — that  Poe's 
^   work   is  decadent,   that   its  romanticism   is  exaggerated, 
^  sensational,  strained,  if  not  overstrained.     And,  further- 
more, whatever  else  they  may  decide,  it  should  be  equally 
/  clear  that  his  artistic  powers,  which  were  far  saner  than 
J  his  imagination,  transformed   his  decadent  material   into 
'  *  beauty,  which  is  often  imoressive  and  sometimes  perfect, 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne  39 

Thus,  while  it  will  never  be  possible  to  place  him  in  the 
first  rank  of  the  literary  hierarchy,  they  do  not  wisely  who 
would  thrust  him  out.  They  are  not  wise  because,  when 
all  is  said,  his  decadent  imagination  was  controlled  by  a 
vigorous  reason.  His  stories,  although  the  substance  is 
often  questionable,  arouse  in  high  measure  the  legitimate 
emotions  of  horror,  terror,  and  awe;  and  both  America 
and  Europe  have  gone  to  school  to  his  art. 


VII 


THE  short  stories  of  Poe  and  of  Hawthorne  are  almost 
exactly  contemporary.  Both  men  came  to  artistic  matu- 
rity in  fiction  about  1835,  the  date  of  publication  of 
Berenice  and  Hawthorne's  The  Ambitious  Guest,  and 
Hawthorne's  contributions  to  the  short  story  ended  a  few 
years  after  the  death  of  Poe  in  1849.  Furthermore,  both 
writers  were  children  of  the  romantic  movement.  Here 
the  resemblance  ceases.  A  closer  relationship  had  never 
begun,  for  nothing  is  more  significant  of  the  originality 
of  the  American  short  story  than  the  absolute  independ- 
ence of  these  contemporary  masters,  one  of  the  other. 
I  Poe  cared  chiefly  for  emotional  effects,  and  made  in 
{William  Wilson  (1839)  almost  his  only  experiment  in 

{moral  analysis.!  Hawthorne  moved  in  a  world  of  moral 
^"~"  •      "~7 

thought,  colored/ but  not  dominated,  by  emotion/  Poe 
devised  a  perfect  technique  in  order  that  he  might  hold 
his  stories  together.  Hawthorne's  tales  were  prevented 
from  flying  apart  only  by  his  constant  grip  upon  the  moral 
situation,  which  was  the  nucleus  of  his  storyj  The  first 
was  an  artist  working  with  the  materials  of  decadent  ro- 


40  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

.  mance  :  the  second  a  preacher  employing  as  best  he  could 
\_the  methods  of  art. 

Heredity  has  seldom  been  more  interestingly  manifested 
than  in  the  mind  of  Hawthorne.     The  single-mindedness 
of  his  Puritan  ancestors,  their  deep  concern  with  problems 
\of  grace,  salvation,  and  of  conscience,  descended  to  him 
Jin  full  force,  but  in  interesting  transformation.     Sin  in 
(  its  relations  to  salvation,  questions  of  dogma,  and  the  pos- 
\sibility  of  God's  grace,  no  longer  stir  this  liberal-minded 
/Unitarian;  problems  of  character,  ethics,  and  the  nature 
of  the  soul,  have  taken  their  place;  but  the  habit  of  mind, 
the  conscious  introspectiveness  of  the  Puritan,  remains  and 
becomes  the  prime  characteristic  of  Hawthorne  the  man, 
the  thinker,  and  the  creative  artist.     In   TJt£^Ambitious 
Guest  it  is  the  effect  and  the  futility  of  ambition  which 
interests  him;  in  T^ke^  Birthmark   (1843)   the  failure  of 
the  search  for  human  perfection  ;  in  Thje  Great  Stone  Face 
(  1850)  the  ennobling  power  of  loyalty  to  a  high  ideal;  in 
Daughter  (1844)   the  result  of  a  poisoning 


of  the  mind.  Upon  such  themes  he  dwells  with  an  al- 
most unexampled  intensity.  The  stories  which  embody 
them  have  a  little  of  the  conventional  and  the  common- 
place, but  they  assume  not  a  little  of  that  moral  majesty 
which  we  associate  with  the  great  Puritan  work  of  the 
seventeenth  century. 

If  Hawthorne  had  lived  in  the  seventeenth  century  he 
would  probably  have  preached.  The  romantic  movement 
made  a  story-teller  of  him.  His  note-books  show  that  he 

"was  constantly  trying  to  clothe  his  moral  themes  in  the 
garments  of  possible  experience;  and  these  garments  were 

jiearly  always  those  of  romance.  Aylmer,  in  The  Birth- 
mark, is  a  magician  who  has  all  but  conquered  the  secrets 
of  life;  Ernest,  in  The  Great  Stone  Face,  lives  among 
wild  mountains  beneath  a  great  face  on  a  crag;  the  am- 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne  41 

bitious  guest  is  swallowed  up  in  an  avalanche;  Rappac- 
cini's  daughter  is  a  Paduan  nourished  upon  the  poison 
of  mysterious  flowers;  and  no  scene  in  literature  is  more 
romantic  than  the  last  hour  in  the  life  of  Ethan  Brand. 
The  weird,  the  majestic,  the  awful,  and  the  horrible: 
these  familiar  moods  of  the  romantic  movement  all  ap- 
ipear  in  such  stories;  and  are  quite  as  evident  in  the  his- 
itorical  narratives.  In  The  Gray  Champion  (1835), 
where  the  spiritual  grandeur  of  the  old  Puritan  sub- 
dues the  pride  of  a  royal  governor,  or  Legends  of  the  Prov- 
ince House  (1838),  his  subjects,  like  Scott's,  come  from 
romantic  periods  of  history,  and  the  setting  is  in  complete 
accord  with  what  we  recognize  as  the  machinery  of  ro- 
mance. Speculation  upon  moral  problems  is  necessarily 
abstract:  romance  which  is.  in  its  essence,  sensuous,  de- 
mands the  concrete.  Over  the  bridge  of  romantic  nar- 
s  thoughts  upon  human  nature  passed 
to  the  fullest  artistic  expression  of  which  he  was  capable. 
The  passage  was  difficult.  Take  The  Birthmark  for 
an  example.  Thp  moral  irlen  at  the  root  of  this  story  is, 
as  has  been  saicr;  the  futility  of  the  search  for  human  per- 
fection.  It  was  first  expressed  by  Hawthorne  in  the  form 
uf  a  situation,  and  is  recorded  in  The  American  Note- 
Books,  under  date  of  1840,  as  follows:  "A  person  to  be 
the  death  of  his  beloved  in  trying  to  raise  her  to  more  than 
mortal  perfection ;  yet  this  should  be  a  comfort  to  him  for 
having  aimed  so  highly  and  so  holily."  As  it  stands,  this 
moral  situation  could  be  made  into  either  an  allegory  or  a 
story.  Hawthorne's  romantic  mind  chose  the  latter.  He 
imagined  the  wonderful  laboratory  of  Aylmer,  hung  with 
gorgeous  curtains;  he  imagined  the  tiny  birthmark  on  the 
cheek  of  Georgiana;  the  foul  dwarf,  Aminadab,  to  play 
the  cynic's  part  in  the  experiment;  and  then  began  the 
story  of  the  fatal  hand.  If  he  could  have  made  it  all 


42  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

story!  But  no,  he  started  with  an  abstract  speculation, 
and  he  will  not  or  cannot  drop  it.  He  enlarges  upon  his 
moral;  he  varies  it;  and  then,  at  the  very  climax,  when 
Georgiana's  birthmark  fades  away  in  death,  and  the 
artist's  work  is  done,  "  a  hoarse  chuckling  laugh  was 
heard  again!  Thus  ever  does  the  gross  fatality  of  earth 
exult  in  its  invariable  triumph  over  the  immortal  essence, 
which,  in  this  sphere  of  half-development,  demands  the 
'completeness  of  a  higher  state.  Yet  had  Aylmer  .  .  .  ," 
and  so  on  to  the  didactic  conclusion.  The  moral  in- 
tensity of  the  writer  is  too  great  for  his  art.  In  the  lan- 
guage of  rhetoric,  his  narrative  contains  too  much  exposi- 
tion. In  the  language  of  esthetics,  he  errs  in  subordinat- 
ing art  to  the  drawing  of  a  moral.  Smug  the  Joiner's 
head  would  peep  from  beneath  the  lion  mask,  and 
Hawthorne  the  preacher  will  interrupt  even  at  the  mo- 
ment when  Hawthorne  the  story-teller  and  romanticist  is 
just  casting  his  powerful  spells.  And,  in  varying  degrees, 
this  same  error  is  to  be  found  throughout  The  Twice-Told 
Tales,  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse,  and  The  Snow  Image 
and  Other  Tales,  the  volumes  which  contain  his  short 
stories. 

So  much  for  detraction.  Yet  it  cannot  be  denied,  even 
by  the  most  bigoted  believer  in  art  for  art's  sake,  that 
these  solemn  tales  of  Hawthorne  have  tremendous  force. 
Their  moral  intensity,  even  when  uncontrolled,  gives  them 
a  weight  and  a  dignity  scarcely  equaled  in  the  short  story, 
and  the  measured  elevation  of  their  style  lifts  them  far 
above  the  banal  and  the  trite.  Even  without  the  rolling 
music  of  Hawthorne's  powerful  style,  it  is  questionable 
whether  they  could  be  trite.  Hawthorne  felt  these 
familiar  themes  too  deeply  to  be  anything  but  impressive 
in  his  delivery  of  them.  There  was  nothing  novel  in  his 
thinking:  no  new  speculations  upon  human  nature  seem 


Nathaniel  Hawthorne  43 

to  have  come  to  him  who  was  always  speculating  upon  it, 
no  new  fields  of  imagining,  morbid  or  otherwise,  were 
opened  by  his  fertile  brain ;  but,  like  his  spiritual  ancestors, 
the  religious  enthusiasts  of  the  seventeenth  century,  he 
struck  fire  into  old  truths,  and  turned  white-hot  again  a 
familiar  metal.     Indeed,   these  moral  stories,  where  the 
line  between  preaching  and  narration  is  often  so  insuf- 
ficiently drawn,  are  finer,  and  seem  to  be  more  durable, 
than    the    more    impressionistic,    less    speculative    stories. 
Ethan  Brand  ( 1851 ),  whose  firelit  gloom  and  tragic  heart 
of  marble  in  the  ashes  of  the  kiln  drive  home  a  sermon 
on  egotism,  is  infinitely  greater,   far  better  remembered 
than   The  White  Old  Maid  or  The  Hollow  of  Three 
Hills,  in  which  the  narrative  is  more  subservient  to  the 
true  end  of  art.     The  moral  stories  are  finer  because  they 
have  more  of  the  true  Hawthornesque.     They  alone,  be- 
cause of  their  sanity,  because  of  their  true  human  nature, 
but,  most  of  all,  because  of  their  intensity,  can  be  ranked 
with  the  much  more  artistic  tales  of  Poe. 
-     It  is  in  these  moral  tales  also  that  Hawthorne's  con- 
/  tribution  to  the  technique  of  the  short  story  may  best  be 
j  studied.     He  was  the  first  short-story  writer  to  build  his 
<  narrative  purposefully  and  skilfully  upon  a  situation.     A 
^situation  may  be  defined   as  any  active  relaTtoTTsfnp  be- 
tween character  and  circumstances.     The  Birthmark  has 
already  given  us  an  example,      i  ne  Note-Books,  under 
date  of  1837,  contain  one  quite  as  interesting,  and  quite 
as  susceptible  of  development:  "A  woman  to  sympathize 
with  all  emotions,  but  to  have  none  of  her  own."     These 
Note-Books   include   many   more,    some   of   which    were 
afterwards  made  into  stories,  others  left  undeveloped.     In- 
»  deed,  a  moment's  consideration  of  any  Twice-Told  Tale 
/  will  reveal  such  a  situation  as  the  foundation  of  the  nar- 
\  rative.     In  fact,  it  is  the  central  situation  which  holds  to- 


44  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 

Igether  each  of  Hawthorne's  best  stories;  without  it  there 
would  not  be  enough  technique  to  keep  the  tale  from  flying 
apart. 
This  method  of  telling  a  story  is  of  more  than  passing 
interest.  The  majority  of  modern  short  stories  which 
have  any  claims  to  worth  are  built  upon  situations,  though 
not  often  upon  jnoral  ones.  Indeed,  a  situation  makes  a 
particularly  good  subject  for  a  short  story,  and  the  life  of 
the  nineteenth  century  and  our  own  has  seemed  to  lend  it- 
self particularly  well  to  this  kind  of  literary  treatment. 
Though  later  writers  do  not,  like  Hawthorne,  require  the 
unifying  agencies  of  a  single  situation  to  keep  their  short 
narratives  in  a  short-story  form,  yet  many  and  many  a 
vision  of  life  could  scarcely  have  been  embodied  in  nar- 
rative except  for  this  fashion  of  viewing  it.  The  nine- 
teenth-century interest  in  psychological  problems  would 
have  quickly  brought  the  method  of  the  situation  into 
the  short  story,  even  if  Hawthorne's  obsession  with  moral 
problems  had  not  driven  him  to  it  first.  And  it  was  not 
a  conscious  art,  like  Foe's,  which  he  developed ;  rather  it 
came  from  his  Puritan's  eye,  ever  seeking  the  effect  of  the 
world  upon  character  or  the  soul.  Less  spiritual  writers 
could  not,  and  did  not,  imitate  that.  But,  though  the 
direct  influence  of  his  kind  of  writing  is  much  more  dif- 
ficult to  trace  than  Poe's,  its  effects  must  be  reck- 
oned with ;  and  the  results  in  his  own  stories  were 
superb. 

A  deep,  if  not  an  original,  student  of  the  heart,  a  great 
romanticist — for  he  makes  moral  problems  no  less  than 
colonial  governors  romantic,  a  painstaking  artist  who 
J  labored  to  realize  his  conception  of  life,  and  failed  only 
when  the  importance  of  his  moral  made  him  blind  to 
the  needs  of  his  story,  Hawthorne  is  one  of  the  few  great 
figures  in  American  literature,  and  one  of  the  most  in- 


England  in  the  Mid-Century  45 

teresting  in  all  the  course  of  the  short  story.     It  is  easy 
to  criticize  his  tales ;  it  is  very  difficult  to  forget  them. 


VIII 

ENGLAND   IN    THE    MID-CENTURY 

IN   the  third,   fourth,  and  fifth   decades  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  two  literatures  were  trying  to  devise  a 
|  form  of  short  narrative  by  means  of  which  a  single  im- 
I  pression,  a  single  situation,  or  a  highly  unified  plot  could 
M>e  made  intelligible  and  effective.     The  American  writers, 
who  dealt  chiefly  with  impressions  and  situations,  we  have 
just    discussed.     The    work    of    their    French    contem- 
poraries,  especially   Merimee,  Gautier,   and   Balzac^   was 
more  especially  with  plots,  and  represents  a  parallel,  not 
a    derivative    movement^     Indeed^    Merimee,    in    such    a 
story  as  Mateo  Falcone  (1829),  had  illustrated  the  art  of 
single  effect  in  a  short  story  before  Poe's  first  tale  was 
published,    j^merican    influence    upon    French    narrative 
began  much  later,  with  Baudelaire's  translation  of  Poe's 
tales    in    1852-1 85s.     The    French    short    story    had    no 
""marked    influence   upon   American   fiction    until    the   last 
third  of  the  century. 

While  these  notable  movements  in  story-telling  were 
going  on  in  both  America  and  France,  and,  indeed,  for 
nearly  thirty  years  after  the  death  of  Poe  in  1849,  Eng- 
land contributed  nothing  new  to  the  technique  of  the  short 
story.     It  would  be  wrong  to  say  that  there  were  no  short 
narratives  of  importance  in  the  British  literature  of  that 
*.   period.     On  the  contrary,  there  were  many,  but  only  a 
\    few  of  them  belong  to  what  we  in  our  time  call  the  short 
story.     They  may  be  assigned  to  three  very  well  defined 


46  England  in  the  Mid-Century 

classes.  In  the  first  place,  there  are  the  numerous  tales 
of  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Mrs.  Gaskell,  later  of  Meredith 
andTJarcTy,  which  are  neither  long  stories  nor  short  ones. 
LJickeTis's  Christmas  Carol  ( 1843)  and  The  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth  ( 1 845 )  are  typical  of  the  kind  to  which  I  refer, 
and  with  them  might  be  placed  Mrs.  Gaskell's  charming 
Cousin  Phillis  (1863-64),  Eliot's  Scenes  of  Clerical 
Life  (1858),  and  Meredith's  Chloe  (1879).  No  history 
of  fiction  could  afford  to  neglect  such  admirable  tales,  and 
et  they  have  little  place  in  the  development  of  the  modern 
rt  story.  They  are  to  be  grouped  with  what  the 
French  call  the  nnt/nfffe,  a  story  of  linked  episodes,  a 
larger  unity  than  our  shnrtstm-Y/^ncT  lacking  its  single- 
ness nf  ffffr*",  «-kr>iijrk  .'r.  r.r>  c^ngp  flttfTPpt'n  g  the  coni- 
plexity,  the  many-plottedness  of^the  novel.  Tempting 
subjects  for  critical  appreciation,vthey  belong  Tmtside  the 
necessarily  strict  limits  of  our  field.  Not  so  with  an- 
other kind  of  short  narrative,  rarely  produced,  it  is  true,  in 
this  English  period,  but  also  rare  in  its  nature.  I 
mean  those  admirable  short  stories  which  contain  no  arti- 
ficial technique,  no  subtle  situations  carefully  grasped,  bui: 
just  an  unforced  representation  of  a  simple  incident  which 
itself  has  the  high  unity  required  for  short-story  success^ 
Dr.  John  Brown's  Rab  and  His  Friends  (1858),  where 
modern  surgery  makes  a  most  effective  entry  into  fiction, 
is  an  admirable  example.  The  third  variety  of  mid- 
century  English  short  narrative  was  less  excellent.  Un- 
der pressure  from  the  weird  and  the  terrible,  those  pop- 
ular themes  of  romanticism,  some  English  writers  de- 
veloped the  art  of  suspense  and  the  single  effect  which 
Poe,  at  an  earlier  period,  had  stamped  his  own,  and 
turned  out  stories  which  in  form,  if  not  in  substance, 
resembled  those  of  the  American.  If  one  remembers  the 
close  connection  between  an  urgent  romanticism  and  the 


America  in  the  Mid-Century  47 

impressionistic  short  story,  this  will  seem  most  natural. 
The  surprising  thing  is  that  it  was  done  so  seldom. 
Dickens  hit  it  off  once  in  £he  Signal-J&an  (Mugby  Junc- 
tion, 1866)  ;  did  it  well,  but  only  once.  Wilkie  Collins's 
A  TerriblvStr^nj^^edii^^},  and  Bulwer-Lytton's 
Tie^IJouse  and^  the  Brain  (1859)  are  other  specimens. 
All  three  of  these  are  stories  of  horror  or  mystery.  No- 
where, before  the  Seventies,  was  this  technique,  so  far 
as  I  am  aware,  used  for  other  themes.  Thus  the  Eng- 
lish writers,  being,  as  a  historian  of  fiction  would  say, 
busied  with  the  more  important  business  of  the  novel,  and, 
as  a  believer  in  the  American  short  story  might  add,  some- 
what inapt  in  the  refinements  of  short  narrative,  had  little 
share  in  the  art  which  gave  us  that  short  story  which,  for 
better  or  for  worse,  has  been  typical  of  the  turn  of  the 
twentieth  century. 

IX 

AMERICA    IN   THE    MID-CENTURY.      THE    BROADENING   OF 
THE   FIELD  OF  THE   SHORT  STORY 

/       IN  America  it  was  different,  and  naturally  so,  for  there 
^  was  a  stronger  incentive  to  short-story  writing.     There 
*  was  the  tradition  of  Irving,  Poe,  and  Hawthorne,  great 
|   writers  whose  fame  was  largely  built  upon  the  short  story. 
There  was  a  further  impulse  derived  from  the  competi- 
tion of  the  English  novel,  which  was  not  only  better  than 
»       the  American  novel,  but  cheaper,  since  the  lack  of  proper 
)^  jcopy right  laws  allowed  it  to  be  pirated.     The  circulation 
of  these  imported  goods  discouraged  would-be  novelists, 
encouraged  the  magazines  whose  field  was  less  easily  oc- 
cupied by  a  foreign  competitor,  and  thus  encouraged  the 
short  story,  whose  place  of  publication  was  usually  in  a 


48  America  in  the  Mid-Century 

\  periodical.  Lastly,  there  was  a  wealth  of  short-story  sub- 
jects in  the  rapidly  changing^  civilization  of  this  country, 
.and,  what  was  even  more  important,  a  disposition  to  grasp 
jhem  on  the  part  of  American  \vritersj)f  hctioa. 

At  first,  although  the  short-story  output  was  large, 
larger  than  England's,  the  quality  was  not  high.  In  the 
mass  of  magazine  stories  published  in  the  decade  just  before 
and  just  after  the  Civil  War,  there  were  many  short  stories 
of  moderate  excellence.  But  they  are  all_highly  inferior 
to  the  nouvelles  of  Dickens  and  the  other  experiments  in 
short  narrative  of  the  English  writers,  although  their  sub- 
jects may  make  them  interesting  to  an  American  reader. 
This,  however,  does  not  fully  apply  to  work  of  two  Amer- 
ican writers  of  this  period  which  is  not  only  good  in  itself, 
but  which  continues  that  line  of  development  which  leads 
up  from  Poe  and  Hawthorne  to  the  kind  of  story-writing 
which  triumphed  in  the  last  third  of  the  century.  One 
pf  these  men  drew  his  inspiration  from  Poe.  The  other 
{succeeded  Hawthorne  in  the  study  of  the  situation. 

Fitz- James  O'Brien,  an  Irishman,  migrated  to  Amer- 
ica about   1852,  and  became  a  free-lance  in  journalism, 
poetry,  and  magazine  fiction.     His  vigorous  imagination, 
slightly  morbid,  and  not  untouched  with  Celtic  mysticism, 
/made  him  an  easy  victim  to  the  spell  of  Poe.     What  Was 
I  It?,  a  story  of  an  invisible  monster  who  embarrasses  the 
yoccupants  of  a  New  York  boarding-house,  and  The  Dia- 
mond Lens,  the  tale  of  the  love  of  a  youth  for  a  micro- 
scopic creature  who  wrings  his   heart  by  dying  in   her 
world  of  a  water  drop,  are  his  two  best  known  stories. 
The  stamp  of  the  latter  end  of  the  romantic  movement  is 
upon  these  plots;  the  mark  of  Poe  is  upon  the  actors: 
morbid,   abnormal   people,  who  meddle  with  opium,   or 
dally  with  scientific  mysticism.    And  it  is  Poe's  fine  art  of 
construction  w^hich  makes  the  stories  effective.     Though 


America  in  the  Mid-Century  49 

O'Brien  did  not  catch  the  solemn  beauty  of  Foe's  style, 
though  he  descended  from  Usher's  and  Ligela's  regions  of 
Gothic  romance  to  prosaic  New  York,  he  achieved,  never- 
theless, a  strong  emotional  effect.  He  was  too  imitative 
to  be  great ;  but  when  he  imitated  Poe's  short  story  his 
success  was  well  deserved. 

^""Edward  Everett  Hale  carried  on  the  American  short 
story  in  a  different  fashion.  Hale  was  a  Unitarian  min- 
ister of  varied  capabilities,  who  lived  until  1909;  a  fact 
which  shows  how  rapid  has  been  the  growth  of  our  now 
^superabundant  short  story.  His  one  great  narrative  is 
/  The  Man  Without  a  Country  (1863),  a  story  in  which 
[  a  poignant  situation  unifies  the  whole.  Thus,  in  tech- 
/  nique,  he  was  a  successor  of  Hawthorne.  But  he  was  in  no 
sense  an  imitator.  The  Man  Without  a  Country  develops 
the  situation  of  an  unhappy  lieutenant  of  our  army  who, 
in  a  moment  of  temper,  wished  to  throw  off  his  allegiance, 
and  in  a  manner  no  less  terrible  than  pathetic  was  granted 
his  wish.  Here  is  no  moral  problem,  no  attempt  to  give 
flesh  and  blood  to  abstractions,  nothing,  in  fact,  that  is 
Hawthornesque,  except  the  choice  of  a  situation  for  the 
unifying  principle  of  the  narrative.  It  is  an  intensely 
patriotic  story,  all  afire  with  the  agonized  loyalty  of  the 
North  of  the  Civil  War.  Perhaps  it  is  because  of  the 
gripping  power  of  the  central  situation,  that  this  ill- 
ordered  narrative  gives  over  the  writer's  intense  emotion 
even  to  the  readers  of  this  later  generation. 

But  one  must  regretfully  note,  in  addition,  for  this 
mid-century  in  America,  that  of  all  its  fertile  story-tellers, 
none  but  these  two  have  been  kept  in  remembrance,  and  of 
these  two,  O'Brien  has  sadly  needed  a  revival.  N.  P. 
Willis,  Bayard  Taylor,  A.  F.  Webster,  and  many  others 
have  gone  to  the  bookcase  on  the  third-floor  back.  They 
had  talent,  wit;  Willis,  perhaps,  a  touch  of  genius.  But 


56  Bret  Harte 

their  materials  were  too  slight,  their  art  not  sufficient. 
The  fortunate  chance  which  made  O'Brien  a  link  between 
Poe  and  the  modern  short  story  alone  has  saved  him  from 
the  general  decay  of  reputations  once  excellent,  for  he  was 
little  more  than  a  clever  journalist.  And  the  intensity 
of  Male's  one  great  story  alone  makes  it  worth  noting 
that  the  method  of  the  situation  was  carried  on  there  and 
elsewhere  by  that  writer.  But  the  experiments  of  these 
authors  were  more  significant  than,  at  this  point  in  the 
discussion,  they  may  appear. 


BRET  HARTE 

• 

IT  is  more  than  noteworthy,  it  is  remarkable,  that  until 
'some  time  after  the  Civil  War  no  one  seems  to  have  recog- 
nized that  the  impressionistic  short  story  was  particularly 
fitted  to  express  American  subjects.  Perhaps  it  was  be- 
cause this  literary  form  had  been  so  closely  associated  with 
,j:he  mystic  and  the  terrible  of  ultra-romanticism.  It  was 
Bret  Harte  who  first  applied  the  technique  of  Poe  to  dis- 
tinctively American  life;  or,  if  you  prefer,  i^vvasBret 
Jiarte  who  first  interested  himself  in  the  impressionistic 
features  of  a  life  distinrtivelv  American,  and  tried  to  put 
^hem  into  short  stories.  Furthermore,  he  combined  witfi 
the  emotional  effect  which,  Pm-  bar!  desired  that  a  short 
story  should  seek,  the  outlining"*  fl  ^'Vin^f  ritiintirn,  iiL 
.Hawthorne's  fashion,  and  so  established  what  might  be 
hp  normal  method  for  the  later  short  story. 


A  gold-mine  as  rich  as  the  placer-beds  was  openeH  for 
this  young  American  when,  in  1857,  he  entered  literature 
by  the  backdoor  of  a  California  typesetting  room,  and 


Bret  Harte  51 

began  to  write  in  a  new  world  full  of  vivid  contrasts 
and  striking  situations.  Subjects  for  short  stories  must 
have  flashed  upon  him  by  multitudes,  as  they  flashed  upon 
the  writers  of  that  far  deeper  tumult,  the  Renaissance. 
At  first  he  could  not  use  them.  His  earliest  tales  make 
little  effect.  California  was  in  them,  but  they  do  not 
make  you  feel  California.  Then  he  began  anew.  Per- 
haps he  had  been  reading  Poe.  Perhaps  he  was  moved  by 
the  need  of  driving  his  keen  impressions  home  to  the 
reader.  Probably  both.  At  all  events,  he  wrote  stories 
which  he  called  "  sketches,"  and  the  first  of  these  was  the 
famous^ Luck  of  Roaring  Camp  (1868),  which  shocked, 
by  its  vividness,  the  lady  proof-reader  of  the  Overland 
Monthly — strange  proof  that  pioneer  California  was  turn- 
ing bourgeois  at  the  very  moment  that  its  picturesque  bar- 
barism was  first  being  effectively  recorded.  The  Luck, 
with  The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat  and  Tennessee's  Part- 
ner, which  followed  in  1869,  make  up  the  great  trilogy 
of  Harte's  stories.  If  all  the  rest  of  his  prose  had  been 
left  unwritten,  his  reputation  would  still  rest  quite  se- 
curely, and,  in  truth,  not  much  altered,  on  these  three. 

As  literature,  Harte's  best  stories  crystallize  the  life  of 
the  mining-camp,  a  life  where  law  was  still  a  matter  ot 
personal  opinion,  and  human  nature  could  be  seen  working 
in  the  open,  free  for  a  time  from  many  restraints.  It  is 
true  that  the  wise  say  that  Harte's  California  never  ex- 
isted. Naturally.  He  was  a  romancer,  and,  perhaps,  a 
sentimentalist.  He  did  not  photograph,  but  paint.  Cer- 
tainly his  version  of  this  new  world  was  sufficiently  true 
to  command  applause,  and  more  than  sufficiently  in- 
teresting. Few  scenes  in  modern  narrative  are  more  con- 
vincingjhanjjiejnajxh^p^tjiej^j^^ 

nessee's  plea  for  his  partner,  or  Roaring  Camp's  house- 
warming  for  its  first  baby.  These  glimpses  of  old  human 


52  Bret  Harte 

/—nature,  revealing  itself  strangely  in  the  midst  of  barbarism, 
\  lawlessness,  license,  and  the  Sierras,  have  a  value  which 
^  not  even  absolute  untruthfulness  to  local  conditions  could 
/  utterly  destroy.     But,  as  H.  C.  Merwin,  Harte's  biog- 
rapher, has  recently  proved,  they  are  not  untruthful ;  they 
are  romantically  true. 

Again,  there  are  the  very  memorable  characters  which 
Harte  gave  to  fiction.     There  is  the  red-shirt  miner  with 
bad  language,  worse  morals,  and  a  big  heart;  the  sweet 
souled  school-marm  who  serves  as  foil ;  and  the  generous 
gambler  with  steel-like  nerve.     These  are  not  so  American 
as  the  scenes  and  the  life  in  which  they  move.     Indeed, 
f  they  belong  to  that  world-wide  family  of  sentimental  char- 
I  acters  in  which  the  black  and  white  of  sin  and  virtue  are 
\mixed   without   being   mingled.     Dickens,    Harte's   chief 
literary  master,  was  the  adept  among  contemporaries  in 
this  art,  and  from  Dickens,  Harte  learned  much.     Never- 
theless,   however    sentimentalized,    Kentuck,    Oakhurst, 
Yuba  Bill,  were  studied  in  California,  and  their  reality 
I  is  convincing.     If  the  Forty-niners  were  to  be  presented 
I   typically,  this  method  was,  perhaps,  most  likely  to  catch  the 
I  essential  qualities  of  a  society  where  the  absence  of  con- 
)  ventions  left  human  nature  free. 

Lastly,  this  interesting  life,  these  picturesque  characters 
and  vivid  situations,  were  embodied  not  in  rambling  tales 
from  which  half  their  flavor  would  have  evaporated,  but 
in  well-ordered  stories  where  incident  led  to  incident,  and 
the  wTiole  to  a  climax.  Kentuck  dead,  with  the  baby's 
grasp  still  upon  his  great  fingers;  Tennessee  pleading  tear- 
fully over  the  corpse  of  his  villainous  friend ;  Piney  and 
the  Duchess  wrapped  in  each  other's  arms  between  the 
walls  of  Sierra  snow,  irresistibly  make  the  desired  emo- 
tional effect.  Perhaps  this  is  what  Harte  meant  \vhen  he 
called  these  stories  sketches.  He  knew  that  his  purpose 


Bret  Harte  53 

I  was  to  strike  and  awake  the  senses  as  a  painting  strikes  and 
I  awakens  them. 

i       Historically,  Bret  Harte  is  of  great  importance.     He 
[  introduced  local  color  into  the  short  story.    He  introduced 
the  American  short  story  into  England,  and  popularized 
\jjie  impressionistic  variety  in  America.     Of  course,  there 
had  been  local-color  stories  before  Harte.     But  no  one  had 
made  such  capital  out  of  the  peculiarities  of  a  single  dis- 
trict.    No  one  had  made  these  peculiarities  the  apparent 
reason  tor  telling  the  story.    I  say  apparent,  for  it  will  be- 
come clear,  when  we  discuss  the  later  developments  of 
local  color  in  American  fiction,  that  the  real  reason  was 
*that  Harte  had  a  story  to  tell.     Even  though  the  growth 
I  of  scientific  curiosity  and   the   impulse  of  the   romantic 
x  movement  both  favored  an  interest  in  local  color,  or  local 
)  impression,  as  the  French  call  it,  the  peculiarities  of  Cali- 
I   fornia,  if  unaccompanied  by  great  character  sketches  and 
I  notable    plots,    would    scarcely    have    furnished    forth    a 
literary  success  of  a  magnitude  equal  to  Bret  Harte's.     As 
soon  as  narratives  began  to  be  written  merely  to  exhibit 
a  curious  setting,  the  local-color  story  began  to  lose  that 
notable  position  in  American  fiction  which  he  was  the  first 
to  give  it. 

Thus,  from  any  point  of  view,  Harte  is  a  notable  figure 
in  American  literature,  jiis  greatest  fault  was  that  he 
was  incorrigibly  mid-Victorian.  Me  would  look  at  nis 
world  through  a  veil  ol  the  sentiments,  and  find,  or  make, 
purity  in  the  wilderness,  charity  in  rascals,  and  soft  hearts 
in  the  most  uncouth.  On  the  other  hand,  though  he  sen- 
^^timentalizes  California,  he  has  the  powerful  touch  of  the 
_rnid- v  ictorian  novelists,  who,  whatever  names  we  may 
call  them,  left  us  infinitely  moving  stones  and  unfor- 
gettable characters.  Most  of  all,  he  gave  us  the  "short 
Story  of  single  eftect  and  single  situation,  no  longer  as- 


54  Broadening  of  Field  of  the  Short  Story 

sociated  with  ultra-romance  or  devoted  to  moral  analysis, 
but  transformed  into  an  efficient  instrument  for  the  de- 
piction of  American  life. 


XI 


THE    FURTHER    BROADENING   OF   THE   FIELD   OF 
THE  SHORT  STORY 

WITH  Hale,  and  especially  with  Harte,  the  broadening 
of  the  field  of  the  short  story  was  well  begun,  but  the 
movement  scarcely  reached  full  headway  until  the  Sev- 
entjgs  and  the_£ighties.  In  these  years  American  humor 
pnurrrl  into  rhnrt  narrative  and  developed  the  most  char- 

li'tgrary  prod_y£ts^  the  tale  of 


_ 

_light  and  surprising  situation;  the  local  colorists  carried 
their  researches  into  unexploited  regions  throughout  the 
land  ;  and  under  the  powerful  guidance  of  Henry  Tames 
the  storv  of  subtle,  psychological  situation  deepened  as 
.well  as  broadened  the  activity  of  the  short  story. 

In   the  time  of  Hawthorne  and   Poe   the  good  short 
stories  had  been  almost  without  exception  deadly  serious. 
1  Hawthorne's   mind   never  smiles,   at   least   in   his   great 
t  1  stories,  even  if  his  lips  may  appear  to  do  so.     Poe,  in  a 
nhumorous  mood,  is  pitiable.     His  best  tales  are  serious  to 
jthe  breaking-point.     Harte  is  a  great  humorist,  but  his 
yiumor   is  of  the  quiet,   sympathetic  variety,   which   em- 
/braces  pathos,  and  disappointment,  and  sorrow  in  its  view 
V)f  the  world.     The  easy  smile,  the  ready  wit,  the  taste 
for  absurdity  of  the  Americans,  had  scarcely  found  its  way 
into  the  literature  of  fiction  before  the  Civil  War.     It 
was  the  decade  after  the  war  which  saw  the  first  vogue  of 
what  I  have  already  called  the  story  of  light  and  sur- 


Broadening  of  Field  of  the  Short  Story   55 

prising  situations:   the  story   with   a  twist   at   the   end. 
This  story  was  a  true  product  of  the  characteristic  Amer- 
ican humor  which   loves  a  sudden   revelation  of  incon-  / 
gruity,    especially    if    it    be    absurd    incongruity.     Mark  L, 
Twain  and  his  work  sums  up  and  represents  this  variety   V. 
of  humor  so  well  that  his  name  nearly  defines  it.    His  fa-  / 
mous    tale,    The    Jumping    Frog    of    Calaveras    County 
(1867),  of  the  frog  who  couldn't  jump  because  of  the 
shot  in  his  belly,  is  an  early  instance  where  the  kind  of 
tale  I  mean  found  its  way  into  literature.     But  Mark 
Twain  seldom   troubled   himself  to   turn  his  jokes  into 
short  stories.     This  enormously  popular  variety  of  fiction 
owes  more  to  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich,  a  charming  artist, 
if  not  a  great  genius,  who  knew  how  To  give  the  American 
anecdote  sufficient  body,   and,  what  is  more   important. 

enough    form,    to    nThf    'fc   1'Ch<'    *ahrjr    t-n    fVjp    Hipnifv    of 

literature.  His  Marjorie  Date  (1873),  that  tale  of  a 
fictitious  sweetheart  with  its  dramatic  reversal  at  the 
very  end,  is  not  likely  to  be  forgotten,  and  Mademoiselle 


Olympe  Zabriskie  (1873),  of  the  acrobatic  lady  who  en- 
snared  an  amorous  aristocrat,  and  then  proved  to  be  a  boy, 
is  only  less  excellent.  These  stories,  and  the  thousands  that 
have  followed  them  down  to  O.  Henry  and  the  genera-    j 
tion  of  the  ten-  and  fifteen-cent  magazines,  are  really  sig-  / 
nificant  in  American  literature,  for  they  inclose  far  bet-   T^ 
ter  than  the  contemporary  novel  a  characteristic,  if  not  a    \ 
vital,  element  of  the  American  spirit.     They  embody  the     * 
American's  keen  pleasure  in  the  inconsequential  and  the 
ridiculous;  Tn  all  that  reveals  man  as  mere  man.     It  is 
•Tlie  llUmOr  of  a  democracy.     Perhaps  the  stories  cited  are 
too  light  to  bear  so  heavy  a  text.     But  there  have  been 
thousands  more.     Frank   Stockton   was  a  jester  of   this 
vintage.     His  The  Lady  or  the  Tiger?   (1882),  which 
ends  in  a  puzzle  over  which  readers  always  disagree,  made 


56  The  Local  Colorists 

comedy  from  a  tragic  situation.  H.  C.  Bunner,  with  his 
frivolous  but  beautifully  constructed  Short  Sixes  (1891), 
followed — and  then  the  names  become  legion.  None, 
however,  have  equaled  in  style  and  in  finish  the  work  }f 
Aldrich,  although  the  spirit  of  fun  has  been  carried  much 
further  afield  than  these  earlier  contributors  to  the  Amer- 
ican comedy  endeavored  to  take  it.  Indeed,  to  a  lack  in 
finish  is  due  the  failure  of  the  humorous  short  story  in 
America  to  equal  in  its  general  development  the  literary 
merits  of  the  parallel  French  school  of  Daudet  and  his 
followers,  to  whose  methods,  it  may  be  said  in  passing, 
Bunner  and  Aldrich  owed  much.  More  of  this  when  we 
reach  our  own  time,  into  which  a  further  discussion  would 
lead  us,  for  since  the  Civil  War  the  field  of  American 
literature  has  been  continuously  cultivated  for  this  variety 
of  the  short  story.8 

XII 

THE  LOCAL  COLORISTS 

THE  use  of  local  color  is  a  logical  result,  on  the  one 
hand,  of  a  growing  scientific  interest  in  the  facts  about  our 
civilization,  on  the  other,  of  the  romanticist's  interest 

8  There  should  be  noted,  under  the  further  broadening  of  the 
short  story,  the  remarkable  work  of  a  Californian,  Ambrose 
Bierce,  who  is  still  writing.  His  In  the  Midst  of  Life:  Tales 
of  Soldiers  and  Civilians  (1892)  contains  stories  which  com- 
bine Bret  Harte's  feeling  for  localities,  with  a  Poe-like  inten- 
sity of  technique.  His  Can  Such  Things  Be?  (1893)  is  a  col- 
lection of  studies  in  mystical  horror  which  are  like  the  work 
of  a  more  scientific,  less  artistic  Poe.  It  is  in  the  stories  of 
the  first  group,  however,  notably  in  An  Occurrence  at  O<wl  Creek 
Bridge,  and  A  Horseman  in  the  Sky,  that  the  remarkable 
technical  power  of  this  author,  and  his  grasp  of  psychological 
experience  are  best  exhibited. 


The  Local  Colorists  57 

/    in  the  individual  and  his  peculiarities.     Local  impression, 

\  Its  other  name,  indicates,  what  is  very  true,  that  in  art  it 

I    is  very  likely  to  be  expressed  by  impressionism.     Since 

(    it   sprang,    then,    from   currents   running   internationally 

J   throughout  the  nineteenth  century,  there  is  nothing  local 

\  to  America  in  the  use  of  local  color.     But  it  was  here 

that  the  workers  in  this  field  made  use  more  especially  of 

the  short  story,   finding   in   it   an   instrument   peculiarly 

adaptable  to  their  desires.     Harte  was  their  forerunner. 

I   say   forerunner,  because  with   him   local   color  was  a 

means  rather   than   an   end.     In   later   decades  the   best 

workers  went  far  beyond  him  in  the  depth  and  truth  of 

their  depiction,  though   falling  short   in   narrative  skill, 

and  often  in  art. 

The  local  colorigjs  can  be  classified,  like  wheat  or  ap- 
ples, by  their  districts.     The  first  notable  success  after 
Harte  was  won  in  Louisiana  by  G.  W.  Cable,  whose  Old^ 
Creole  Days  (1879-1883)  is  full  of  racial  and  geograph- 
(  ical  flavor/ with  plot  enough  to  prevent  the  mass  from  de- 
j  generating  into  mere  scientific  or  impressionistic  descrip- 
1  tion.     A  little  later  came  Miss  M.  N.  Murfree  (Charles 
'   Egbert  Craddock)  and  her  tales  of  the  Tennessee  moun- 
taineers, of  which  the  collection  called  In  the  Tennessee 
I  Mountains    (1884)    contains   some  of    the   best.     These 
/stories  are  rich  with  the  melancholy  of  a  wild  and  forgot- 
C^ten  country,  but  they  lack  form.     Too  often  she  depends, 
as  Harte  never  does,  and  Cable  seldom,  "P9n  dialect,  pe- 
culiarity of  scene  or  circumstance  for  success.   This  will  not 
do  in  narrative,  which,  whatever  else  it  accomplishes,  must 
tell   a  story.     Virginia   followed,   with   Thomas    Nelson 
Page's  In  Ole  Virginia  ( 1887),  the  Maine  coast  in  Sarah 
Ornc  Jewett's  powerful  A  Native  of  IVinby  ( 1893  col.), 
and  many  other  stories,  the  hill  towns  of  New  England  in 
Mrs.    Wilkins-Freeman's    A    Humble    Romance    (1887 


58  The  Local  Colorists 

col.)  and  A  New  England  Nun  (1891  col.);  Western 
Pennsylvania  in  Margaret  Deland's  Old  Chester  Tales 
(1898).  And  a  general  exploitation  of  dialects,  customs, 
scenery,  the  rags,  tatters,  waifs,  strays,  and  left-behinds 
-^civilization  generally,  accompanied  these  finer  examples. 
Three  of  the  women  in  this  list  are  particularly  interest- 
ing, for  their  stories  indicate  the  especial  lines  of  develop- 
ment followed  by  the  really  valuable  among  our  thousands 
of  local-color  stories  in  the  decades  justbefore  the  close  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  \Miss  Jevvety  was  not  content 
with  the  superficies  of  the  local  life  she  studied.  In  The 

funtry  of  the  Pointed  Firs  (1896),  and  like  stories,  she 
?d  to  establish  a  true  relationship  between  the  rocky 
intry  she  loved  and  its  weathered  inhabitants.  Mrs.  Wil- 
is-Freeman,  whose  pen  is  far  more  skilful,  goes  further, 
ith  her,  the  setting  is  interesting  only  for  its  effect  upon 
the   dwellers  of   her   hill  country.     She   deals  with   the 
subtle  influence  of  a  hard,  unlovely  life  upon  tempera- 
ment; she  is  a  conscientious  realist,  who  constructs  her 
Jittle  stories  as  carefuTIy^as  Maupassant  himself.     In  fact, 
in  spite  of  the  difference  in  moral  angle,  she  writes  more 
like  Maupassant  than  does  any  other  American  author. 
Vith   her,   the   local-color  story   in    English    reaches  its 
highest  point  of  finesse;  but  loses  in  vividness,  and  some- 
times in  force,  i  Margaret  Deland  is  almost  no  local  color- 
ist  at  all  in  uie  narrow  sense  of  the  word,  for  her  Old 
Chester  Tales  could  be  shifted  into  any  rural  community 
in  the  East  with  no  damage  to  their  essential  values.     Per- 

cnnali'fy    i'c  .what    ^P   cpeks,    and    the   Careful    Hptaik   nf   Vlfr 

rural  neighborhood  mprply  explain  the  peculiar  nature  of 
her  rhflractersr  and  insure  the  reality  of  her  work, 

One  wonders,  indeed,  whetherjpcal  color  is  not,  after 
all,  a  misnomer  for  this  school;  whether  its  true  art  is 
not  to  be  found  in  the  study  of  the  intricate  relationship 


The  Local  Colorists  59 

between  man's  character  and  environment,  and  whether 
the  use  of  peculiar  circumstances  of  some  unusual  loca- 
tion ought  not  to  be  simply  a  contributory  means  which 
adds  interest  and  truth  to  the  story.  Certainly  this  char- 
acterization fits  the  leaders  whose  work  we  have  just 
described.  And  the  magazines  of  this  epoch  at  the  end 
of  the  nineteenth  century  also  lend  assurance  to  this 
theory.  The  many  writers  (most  of  them  women)  whose 
stock-in-trade  was  no  more  than  a  description  of  un- 
familiar peoples  and  localities,  made  no  excellent  con- 
tribution to  our  fiction,  nor  has  their  vogue  as  individuals 
lasted.  For  a  while  they  feminized  some  of  our  standard 
magazines.  Fancying  that  local  color  was  valuable, 
whether  attached  to  a  real  story  or  not,  they  exalted  the 
weakest  element  of  narrative,  setting,  at  the  expense  of 
character  and  plot;  with  the  result  that  the  public  have 

i  wearied  of  them.     They  degraded  the  local-color  story 

\into  a  descriptive  sketch. 

Thus  the  story  of  localities  declined  from  the  interests 
of  good  narrative  •  indeed,  the  writers  who  practise  it  in  trie 
new  developments  which  our  times  have  brought  about 
have  not  yet  escaped  from  the  fallacy  that  factsor  jm- 
pressioi  alone  can  make  Nevertheless, ^n  the 


hands  of  the  real  artists  of  the  school,  it  has  been  responsi- 
ble for  some  of  our  best  and  our  most  cn"aractensjj£5hoTt 
stories,  furthermore,  the  feeling  for  local  color  gave  to 
"our  ncdo'n,  as  it  has  given  to  others,  an  invaluable  corP 
scientiousness  in  the  use  of  setting.  And  this,  properly 
controlled,  properly  used,  may  raise  the  short  story  or 
the  novel  in  the  next  great  creative  period  to  a  higher 
artistic  level  than  has  hitherto  been  reached. 


60       The  Deepening  of  the  Short  Story 

XIII 

THE   DEEPENING   OF   THE   SHORT   STORY.       HENRY   JAMES 

So  far  we  have  been  busy  chiefly  with  the  broadening 
of  the  field  of  the  American  short  story,  although  natu- 
rally work  like  that  of  Mrs.  Wilkins-Freeman  must  also 
make  it  reach  deeper  into  human  nature  and  experience. 
But  now  we  turn  specifically  to  an  earlier  deepening  of 
its  activities,  conducted  by  one  of  the  master-minds  of 
English  fiction,  who  has  been,  and  is,  influential  to  a  de- 
gree hardly  yet  to  be  estimated. 

As  early  as  Harte  and  Aldrich,  Henry  James  had 
begun  the  practice  of  the  short  story,  but  the  beginning 
of  his  most  characteristic  work  is  to  be  placed  in  the  decade 
1870-1880.  One  of  these  early  stories  was  The  Madonna 
of  the  Future  (1873).  An  American  painter,  resident 
in  Florence  and  optimistic  to  a  degree,  believes  that  it  is 
not  too  late  to  paint  a  great  Madonna.  But  his  ideal  of 
what  that  Madonna  should  be  is  eternally  in  advance  of 
his  powers  of  execution.  His  chosen  model  grows  old 
and  corrupt;  he  himself  grows  old  and  incapable;  while 
his  idea  flowers  beyond  all  powers  of  realization,  until, 
when  the  famous  canvas  at  last  is  seen,  it  is  still  bare. 

This  is  but  one  of  many  experiments  in  the  subtleties  of 
human  nature  which,  since  those  early  days,  Henry  James 
has  been  conducting.  It  illustrates  admirably  the  direc^ 
tion  down  and  in  towards  the  utmost  depths  of  sub- 
jectivity which  he  has  given  to  the  short  story.  The  brief 
unity  of  the  short  tale  is  made  to  express  the  striking  in- 
cident, the  significant  phase  of  the  inner,  ast  before  of  the 
outer,  life.  But  The  Madonna  is  only  an  example.  In 
later  stoneshe  has  plunged  far  deeper,  and,  to  borrow  the 


The  Deepening  of  the  Short  Story        61 

ps5rchologist's  term,  since  with  James  we  are  never  far 
from  psychology,  he  has  entered  into  a  surprising  variety 
j)f  mental  states.  There  is  Brooksmtth  (^i  89~i77~Whicn' 
skilfully  manipulates  the  mind  of  the  perfect  servant,  who 
is  lost  when  he  loses  his  master;  an  unpromising  subject, 
surely,  until,  by  James's  aid,  you  discover  the  fold  upon 
fold  of  subtlety  which  go  to  make  up  the  gradation  of 
that  experience.  There  is  The  Turn  of  the  Screw 
(1898),  a  study  of  intangible,  loathly  horror,  whose 
theme  is  the  slow  corrupting  of  children's  minds.  There 
is  the  pathetic,  but  more  pleasant,  The  Real  Thing 
0893),  in  which  the  essential  principle  of  aristocracy, 
apart  from  all  supporting  circumstances  of  wealth  and 
position,  is  discovered,  mounted  on  a  slide,  and  projected 
upon  the  screen  of  the  short  story. 

f  Thatjnany  of  J^mp^'s  ctnn'p<>  arp  ovpr-subtle  there  is  no 
J  (lenying,  and  from  an  over-subtlety  of  thought  may  arise 
1  fhp  nhsriirity  nf  <;fylp  \vhirh  nftpn  is 


^ 

However,  this  fault,  for  fault  it  sometimes  is,  may  be  quite 
as  properly  charged  to  this  author's  evident  fondness  for 
minutely  accurate  statement  It  has  been  said  by  Mr. 
James  himself  that  the  later  stories,  where  complexity 
of  style  is  most  frequent,  have  all  been  dictated,  andthis" 
would  confirm  the  latter  hypothesis,  for  qualifications  of 
statement  which  make  at  the  same  time  for  accuracy  and 
complexity  come  easily  from  the  tongue.  In  any 
case,  that  the  genius  of  this  great  writer  too  often 
plays  with  his  unusual  intellectual  power,  as  a  skilful 
swordsman  might  play  with  his  rapier  in  the  midst  of 
the  duello,  is  clear.  Sometimes,  at  the  close  of  a  story, 
one  has  the  sensation  which  properly  belongs  after  an  ex- 
periment in  physics.  And  yet,  ja-thp  mnsulprahlp  body  of 

short    Stories    whiVH    Mr     Jampg    hag    givpn    lit,    fhpff    i'g    a 

marvelous  collection  of  experiences,  sensations,  moods,  and 


62       The  Deepening  of  the  Short  Story 
reactions,  which  never  found  their  way  into  fiction  before. 

It   is   possible   that   some   nf   thpm    npypr  Jhavp   pvlctpH     rjnr 

ever  will  exist  for  the  average  man  of  our  half-intellectu- 
alized  civilization.  But  this  does  not  invalidate  the  in-_ 
sight,  or  the  foresight,  of  this  artist  in  psychological 
research  ;  nor  does  it  detract  from  the  great  and  only  half- 
admitted  influence  of  this  work  upon  later  fiction,  and 
especially  upon  the  later  short  story. 

It  is  very  interesting  to  compare  the  work  of  Henry 
James  with  that  of  Hawthorne,  that  other  American  ex- 
plorer of  the  inner  experience,  for  in  so  doing  one  sees 
more  clearly  the  place  which  the  later  writer  must  be  as-_ 
signed  in  the  development  oi  our  short  story.  Both  men 
work  with  situations.  It  is  an  infinitely  delicate^  in- 
finitely  refined  situation  which  Mr.  James  uses  as  a  kind 
of  frame  ubon  which  he  stretches  the  minds  he  is 


to  dissect.  Suppose  evil  influences  could  be  exerted  after 
^death  by  evil  advisers  ;  suppose  they  should  be  exerted  upon 
the  tender  minds  of  children.  There  is  the  frame  of  The 
Turn  of  the  Screw.  Suppose  a  butler  in  the  household 
of  a  gentleman  who  has  created  by  his  personal  attain- 
ments a  notable  salon,  should  become  dependent  upon  the 
society  he  served  there.  If  that  society  should  dissolve 
with  his  master's  death,  what  effect  upon  him?  That  is 
the  central  situation  of  Brooksmith.  One  sees  that,  ex- 
cept in  the  use  of  such  unifying  situations,  there  is  no  re- 
semblance to  the  method  of  Hawthorne.  Hawthorne,  jn- 
deed,  was  a  moralist  who  began  with  a  preoccupation  — 
jthe  moral  he  intended  to  mculcare.  James  is~an  artist  in 
who  studies  what  he  finds  in  the_brain,  or  in  the 


_ 

souI7~or^=rnQre  rafgtv=in  tKe~rTeart.  Jle  advanced  the 
jshort  story  into  new  fields  much  as  the  scientist  has  ad- 
'vanced  chemical  analysis,  or  microscopic  determination. 
kHe  gave  it  a  trend  towards  minute  specialization,  and  the 


The  Short  Story  in  England  63 

exact  expression  of  our  subjectivity,  quite  in  keeping  with 
the  characteristic  interests  or  the  end  ot  the  nineteenth 
Century. 

— 'Thus  trie  deepening  and  broadening  of  the  short  story 
was  well  established  by  the  mid-Eighties.  The  next  de- 
velopment was  across  the  water. 


XIV 

THE   SHORT    STORY    IN    ENGLAND.      ROBERT    LOUIS 
STEVENSON 

THE  ambiguity  of  the  term  "short  story"  becomes 
especially  troublesome  when  one  begins  to  consider  the 
English  fiction  of  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century.  If 
it  is  to  be  interpreted  to  cover  all  short  narrative,  many 
stories  clamor  for  attention.  There  are  the  short  tales 
of  Meredith  and  Hardy,  the  Scotch  sketches  of  Barrie, 
and  innumerable  tales  and  novelettes  of  a  like  description. 
But  most  of  this  fiction  is  in  closer  relationship  to  the 
novel  than  to  the  short  story  whose  development  in  Amer- 
ica we  have  been  tracing.  Much  of  it,  too,  is  inferior 
to  other  work  by  the  same  authors.  Little  of  it  is  in- 
teresting as  an  attempt  to  do  in  short  narrative  what 
could  not  be  done  in  long.  If,  however,  we  somewhat 
arbitrarily  elect  to  study  the  especial  and  distinctive  short 
story  which  the  Americans  had  developed  for  themselves, 
and  which  Americans  were  using  with  full  consciousness 
that  they  had  a  special  tool  for  special  purposes,  then  the 
atmosphere  lightens.  There  are  only  a  few  English 
writers  of  the  nineteenth,  and,  indeed,  of  the  twentieth, 
centuries  who  have  done  notably  well  with  the  highly 
unified,  impressionistic  short  story.  All  show  American 


64  The  Short  Story  in  England 

influence.  Two — the  greatest — return  this  influence  with 
interest.  These  two,  Stevenson  and  Kipling,  should  be 
placed  beside  Poe,  Hawthorne,  Harte,  and  James. 

Stevenson  began  his  career  as  a  romancer  with  a  short 
story,  and  continued  to  turn  to  the  short  story  again 
and  again.  He  seems  to  have  expected  little  reputation 
from  these  efforts  in  a  supposedly  minor  art,  and,  always 
excepting  the  success  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  he  got 
little.  But  as  time  goes  on  the  best  of  these  stories,  A 
Lodging  for  the  Night  (1877),  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's 
Door  (1878),  Will  o'  the  Mill  (1878),  The  Merry  Men 
(i%%2),Markheim  (1885), and  Dr.  Jekyll  ( 1886), which, 
for  all  its  length,  is  a  short  story,  bulk  more  and  more 
among  his  work.  And  rightly. 

Two  general  characteristics  are  especially  striking  in 
f these  stories:  the  hearty,  picturesque  romance;  and  the 
•fjnoral  analysis  which  is  the  core  of  each  story.  In  A 
Lodging  for  the  Night,  Villon,  the  poet-rascal,  assists  at 
a  murder,  flies  through  the  snowy  streets  of  medieval 
Paris,  then  argues  until  daybreak  with  a  feudal  gentle- 
man over  the  difference  between  thieving  and  war.  In 
setting,  incident,  and  spirit,  the  story  is  alive  with  genuine 
romance;  and  a  moral  situation — the  warrior  who  does 
great  ill  nobly,  confronted  with  the  thief  who  does  small 
ill  meanly — holds  together  the  plot. 

Moralized  romance!  No  one  had  done  that  success- 
fully in  the  short  story  since  Hawthorne.  And,  indeed, 
the  more  one  considers  Stevenson  in  this  department  of 
his  manifold  activities  the  more  he  appears  to  be  a  more 
artful,  less  puritanical  Hawthorne.  The  "  shorter 
catechist  "  whom  Henley  detected  in  him,  found  his  op- 
portunity in  the  short  story.  Markheim  and  Dr.  Jekyll 
are  wonderfully  picturesque  studies  of  the  quality  of  evil; 
Will  o'  the  Mill  an  exquisite  presentation  of  the  soul  that 


The  Short  Story  in  England  65 

chose  the  passive  voice  in  life;  even  the  vividly  romantic 
Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door  hinges  upon  the  question,  should 
a  man  marry  to  save  his  neck?  They  are  more  finished 
than  Hawthorne's  tales;  they  are  much  less  didactic,  for 
this  lover  of  things  French  never  made  the  error  of 
preaching  unduly  in  a  work  of  art.  They  are  also  less 
dogmatic,  and,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  less  intense. 
Hawthorne  came  before  Darwinism — he  belongs  to  the 
positive  thinkers  who  saw  clearly  the  duty  of  man  and 
announced  it  with  conviction.  He  belongs  with  Carlyle. 
Stevenson,  who  came  after  the  triumph  of  the  theory  of 
fevolution,  is  less  certain  in  his  views.  He  is  more  em- 
J  pirical  and,  therefore,  more  tolerant;  he  puts  more  em- 
i  phasis  upon  a  worthy  life,  and  less  upon  moral  law.  But, 
in  spite  of  these  great  differences,  of  which  the  last  is 
highly  significant,  the  resemblance  is  striking.  Both  men 
inquire  into  the  moral  nature  of  man,  and  turn  the  results 
into  romance.  This  resemblance  is  not  accidental. 
Stevenson  was  a  close  student  of  Hawthorne,  particularly 
in  his  early  years.  It  is  important,  however,  only  in  this 
respect,  that  it  links  this  first  English  writer  of  the  new 
short  story  to  the  American  line,  and  gives  a  comparison 
which  is  useful  in  appreciating  his  work.  Stevenson  can 
well  afford  the  luxury  of  a  source;  he  has  originality 
enough  of  his  own. 

He  has  originality  enough  and  to  spare,  for,  after  all,  his 
philosophy  of  moral  optimism  is  very  much  his  own ;  and 
so  is  his  romantic  atmosphere,  which  has  a  beautiful 
reality  (a  very  different  thing  from  a  beautiful  realism) 
that  makes  it  more  stimulating  to  the  imagination  than 
the  work  of  any  recent  writer  in  prose;  and  so  are  his 
characters,  which  include  at  least  two  types,  the  man 
obsessed  by  evil,  and  the  weak  man  possessed  of  a  strong 
idealism,  that  are  distinct  contributions  to  fiction.  And 


66  The  Short  Story  in  England 

in  style,  too,  Stevenson  did  a  new  thing  in  the  short  story. 
His  structure  is  careful,  but  upon  his  style  he  lavished  all 
his  energies.  Perhaps  it  will  appear  a  little  Euphuistic 
when  another  generation  begins  to  read ;  and  yet  no  gar- 
ment could  better  fit  the  romantic  dignity  of  his  subjects. 
The  symbolic  world  which  lies  below  Will's  mountain 
pass;  Markheim's  impassioned  pleading  for  his  love  of 
good ;  the  noble  simplicities  of  the  ancient  warrior  of 
Brisetout — all  these  the  beautiful  rhythms  of  Stevenson 
set  forth  with  that  admirable  expressiveness  which  will, 
perhaps,  be  reckoned  as  the  greatest  virtue  he  possessed. 

None  of  these  things  have  powerfully  influenced  the 
contemporary  short  story.  Romance  had  its  swing  and 
(disguised  as  realism)  is  having  another,  but  it  is  the 
romance  which  Kipling  fathered.  The  psychological 
analysis  which  owed  so  much  to  Henry  James  has  been 
more  interesting  to  the  writer  of  our  generation  than  the 
moral  analysis  of  Stevenson.  His  style  has  proved  too 
fine,  or  too  difficult,  for  the  needs  of  the  current  stories. 
Indeed,  save  in  the  pure  romance  of  adventure,  he  has 
been  a  real  influence  only  upon  the  aristocrats  of  letters — 
his  hand  has  scarcely  touched  those  factories  for  the  short 
story  where  are  produced  the  narratives  for  the  popular 
magazines.  But  this  does  not  affect  his  absolute  value; 
and  whether  he  be  regarded  as  a  master  of  the  short  story 
of  situation,  or  as  the  refiner  and  beautifier  of  an  art  too 
often  practised  in  slovenliness  and  haste,  that  value  is  very 
great.  A  reader  must  feel  renewed  respect  for  the 
capabilities  of  short  narrative  when  he  finishes  his  Ste- 
venson. 


The  Short  Story  in  England  67 

XV 

THE  SHORT  STORY  IN  ENGLAND.      RUDYARD  KIPLING 

THE  most  influential  and,  in  many  respects,  the  great- 
est of  modern  writers  of  the  short  story  has  been  Rudyard 
Kipling.  In  his  work,  its  greatest  excellences  and  its 
worst  tendencies  are  alike  fitly  and  fully  displayed. 

It  was  about  1890  that  Kipling's  Indian  fame  broad- 
ened into  an  English  and  an  American  celebrity.  Plain 
Tales  from  the  Hills  (1888),  stories  written  with  a 
sprightly,  sometimes  a  sensational  vividness,  and  deal- 
ing with  the  novel  and  fascinating  contrasts  of  Indian 
life,  gave  him  a  reputation  which  he  has  maintained  with 
far  better  work.  C  These  stories  were  successful  because 
they  were  not  plain.  The  young  Kipling  had  studied 
Bret  Harte  to  advantage.)  The  sharp  contrasts  in  the  life 
of  Harte's  Forty-Niners  had  not  been  uninfluential  in 
awakening  a  consciousness  of  the  "  story  value  "  of  the 
still  sharper  contrasts  of  Anglo-India. <"  Like  Harte,  he 
was  a  journalist,  but  with  the  journalist's  command,  "  be 
striking;  be  interesting,"  far  more  strong  upon  him.  And 
in  place  of  Harte's  mid-Victorian  sentimentality  he  was 
filled  full  of  romantic  enthusiasm  for  primitive  vigor,  and 
the  life  of  the  emotions  and  the  instincts.)  In  a  rapid 
succession  of  such  narratives  as  The  Man  fi^Jip  Would  Be 
King  (1888),  On  Greenhow  Hill  (1890),  Without 
Benefit  of  Clergy  (1890),  Kipling  established  himself  as 
the  master  of  something  vivid  and  new  in  the  art  of  local 
color.^Then,  with  The  Jungle  Books  (1894-1895),  he 
entered" a  world  new  to  romance,  dnd  gave  us  India  and 
the  Primitive  Emotion  by  novel  and  infinitely  stirring  means. 

It  is  easy  now  to  see  what  this  early  Kipling  stood  for. 


68  The  Short  Story  in  England 

He  was  the  apostle  of  a  new  romanticism.  It  was  a  ro- 
(  manticism  of  the  present  instead  of  the  past.  For  the 
\nedieval  knight  or  the  eighteenth-century  Jacobite  he  sub- 
^stituted  the  Englishman,  bewildered  but  omnipotent  in 
jthe  mysterious  Orient.  For  the  romantic  appeal  of  his- 
tory he  substituted  the  equally  romantic  appeal  of  vivid 
locaj  color.,.  Instead  of  reacting  against  contemporary 
impulses,  he  combined  with  them,  exalting  English  virility 
and  English  self-control,  and  turning  the  land  hunger  ol 
the  late  nineteenth  century  into  sheer  romance^  Steven- 
son was  just  showing  how  strong  and  how  enduring  was 
the  taste  for  the  romantic  story.  But  Kipling  went  much 
further ;  fo\by  giving  to  his  characters,  to  his  plots,  to  his 
scenes,  the  air  of  a  vivid  and  current  realism,  he  seized 
upon  the  imagination  of  a  great  class  who,  being  neither 
children  nor  people  of  literary  sensibility,  were  not  easily 
affected  by  literary  romance./  And  this  is  one  reason  why 
his  influence  upon  the  taste  of  this  English-reading  gen- 
eration has  been  almost  beyond  measure. 
(His  means/-if  we  disregard  his  verse — was  the  short 
story,  which  he  took  as  the  Americans,  especially  as  Bret 
Harte,  had  left  itya  highly  unified  narrativ^,  "^df  ^P 
usually  ^)f  a  striking  situation,  ^ml  driving  towards  one 
vivid_  impression  as  the  result  of  the  wholeA  This  short 
story  was  an  admirable  instrument,  unquestionably  the 
best  instrument  for  the  work  he  had  to  dp;  but  he  exag- 
gerated both  its  merits  and  its  defects.  (,  His  characters 
are  always  immensely  striking  people:  freebooters,  exiles, 
heroic  drummer-boys,  black  panthers,  adepts,  express  en- 
gines; their  actions  are  vivid  and  unusual:  a  dash  for  a 
crown,  a  love  affair  with  an  elephant,  the  war  of  the 
jungle  upon  man;  and  the  setting  is  flashed  upon  the  in- 
ward eye  with  all  the  power  of  a  master  of  the  specific 
word.  Journalism — the  gospel  of  the  interesting — is 


The  Short  Story  in  England  69 

mighty  in  them,  and  with  admirable  effect.  With  bad  ef- 
fects also ;  especially  upon  the  numerous  imitators  who 
have  filled  the  magazines  for  twenty  years.  For  jour- 
nalism means  emphasis,  and  emphasis  applied  without  dis- 
crimination leads  to  one  long  scream  for  attention  which 
pains  the  judicious  ear  and  wearies  even  the  lover  of  sen- 
sationalism.,) In  Kipling's  earliest  stories,  notably  in  those 
of  the  Plain  Tales  from  the  Hills,  where  his  observation 
was  still  immature,  and  his  materials  thin,  this  insistence 
upon  the  emphatic  leads  to  a  smartness  of  diction  which 
'may  be  compared  to  the  kind  of  dressing  called  "loud." 
In  later  and  stronger  stories  it  is  only  of  a  lack  of  re- 
iStraint  that  one  complains — of  unnecessary  emphasis  upon 
Ivirility,  vulgarity,  upon  all  the  showy  attributes.  Read 
Pride  and  Prejudice  before  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrow- 
'  hie  Jukes,  and  form  the  criticism  for  yourself. 

Thus,un  his  pursuit  of  a  contemporary  romance,  Kip- 
ling journalized  the  short  story.  He  opened  the  way 
for  those  who  have  vulgarized  it,  he  is  responsible  for  an 
infinite  amount  of  superlative  high  color  and  extreme  ac- 
tion in  current  fiction/ but  his  service  is  not  to  be  judged 
by  its  faults.  The  impressionistic  short  story  is  clearly 
an  issue  of  the  movement  which  produced  modern  jour- 
nalism; it  is  part  of  the  modern  attempt  to  get  at  the 
truth  and  get  at  it  quickly.  The  short  story  and  jour- 
nalism have  grown  up  together ;  America  among  English- 
speaking  nations  has  been  most  influential  for  good  and 
evil  upon  both/^f  Kipling,  whose  first  inspiration  was 
American,  who  applied  more  fully  than  ever  before  the 
methods  of  one  art  to  the  other,  was  following  a  true  in- 
stinct; and  our  contemporary  literature,  if  it  might  be 
more  dignified,  would  be  less  rich  without  the  re- 
sult.^ 

In  journalizing  the  short  story,  Kipling  raised  one  kind 


70  The  Short  Story  in  England 

of  journalism  to  the  level  of  literature.     This  is  the  rea- 
son for  his  success  and  the  chief  attribute  of  his  genius. 
The  wearing  qualities  of  his  frontier-stories,  and  the  per- 
anent  fascination  of  his  Jungle-Books  bear  witness  to 
this  achievement ;  but  it  is  the  later  work  of  Kipling  which 
best  illustrates  it.  /There  is  no  sharp  division,  as  some 
critics  would  have  us  believe,  between  Kipling's  earlier 
and    his   later    periods.     The    difference    lies   only    in    a 
maturing,   a   chastening,    and    a   logical    development   of 
tendencies  already  present;  with  a  natural  change  of  sub- 
ject,} Kipling  is  a  greater  man  than  Harte,  who  worked 
the  California  soil  after  the  gold  was  exhausted\  The  de- 
rvelopment  has  been  along  several  lines,  and  in  every  in- 
j  stance  the  instinct  of  journalism  is  manifest.     Problems 
\at  issue,  questions  of  the  day  interest  Kipling;  he  has 
turned  to  fact-crammed  narratives  of  the  "  special-article  " 
\type,  as  in  The  Army  of  a  Dream,  or  the  anti-socialistic 
Jallegory,  The  Mother-Hive.     In  these  instances  the  mod- 
ern journalist's  call  to  preach  has  been  unfortunate,  for 
in  such  work  he  has  subordinated  art,  just  as  in  his  over- 
\emphatic  days  he  marred  it.     But  in  the  midst  of  the 
new  volumes,  Traffics  and  Discoveries,  Actions  and  Re- 
actions, come  stories  of  soldiers,  of  natives,  of  machines, 
which  exhibit  all  his  old  craftsmanship;  and,  more  sig- 
nificantly, with  them  other  tales  that  reveal  the  journalist 
upon  a  new  trackJ^This  seeker  after  the  interesting  has 
heard  the  call  of  modern  mysticism,  and  begun  to  delve. 
He    has    entered    the    psychological    country    of    Henry 
James,  and  has  told  of  his  discoveries  in  a  more  interest- 
ing fashion.     The  Brushwood  Boy  ( 1895 ) ,  They  ( 1904) , 
An    Habitation    Enforced    (1905),    are    thus    far    the 
masterpieces  of  this  endeavojj!     In  the  first,  Kipling  writes 
of  dreams  come  true.     The  Brushwood  Boy   takes  the 
imaginative  sentiment  of  a  young  soldier,  and  makes  a 


The  Short  Story  in  England  71 

story  of  that;  not  by  analysis,  but  through  a  delicate,  dif- 
ficult history  of  dreams,  where  this  thoroughly  healthy  per- 
son meets  his  childish  fancy,  Annieanlouise,  and  rides  with 
her  down  the  Thirty-Mile  Ride,  until,  in  the  daytime 
and  awake,  he  meets  her  in  the  flesh.  \  They  is  that  incom- 
parable, tale  of  the  blind  and  childless  woman  whose  love 
brings  back  the  souls  of  dead  children:  a  story  so  mov- 
ing, so  delicate,  so  subtly  fine,  as  to  make  ridiculous  the 
criticism  which  disposes  of  Kipling  as  the  apostle  of  the 
primitive,  the  strenuous,  and  the  louAjTAn  Habitation 
Enforced  does  not  dip  into  the  supernormal,  but  it  probes 
no  less  into  the  human  spirit.  The  grip  of  the  land 
upon  its  owners  is  its  theme ;  more  especially  the  grip  of 
old  land  rich  in  human  rights  and  wrongs  upon  the  new- 
comer, who  thinks  that  he  has  purchased  only  so  many 
I  English  acres  with  his  price.  It  is  all  the  more  interesting 
\  because  it  represents,  with  unusual  sympathy,  what  an 
}  Englishman  might  call  the  Colonial  point  of  view.Jf  Jour- 
|  nalism  seems  at  a  far  remove  from  these  excellent  stories. 
I  Not  so;  it  is  a  prime  factor  in  their  success.  Other  men 
have  entered  these  particular  borderlands  before;  none 
have  made  them  so  realizable,  so  concrete.  Kipling's 
journalistic  instinct  for  what,  in  such  subtle  matters,  the 
reader  can  grasp  and  feel,  has  helped  him  to  write 
thi;  most  interesting  report. 

/ V^gain,  there  is  imaginative  history,  the  last  field  in 
&  which  Kipling's  genius  has  wandered.  Puck  of  Pook's 
Hill  (1906),  Rewards  and  Fairies  (1910),  are,  in  the 
language  of  journalism,  interviews  with  England's  dead.N 
The  British  captain  of  Roman  legionaries  tells  the  chil- 
dren of  the  defense  of  the  great  wall;  Queen  Elizabeth 
strolls  and  talks  in  their  grove;  the  man  of  the  stone 
age  recounts  his  sacrifice  for  cold  iron ;  and  Puck,  the 
super-reporter,  manages  each  interview  with  veteran  skill. 


72  The  Contemporary  Short  Story 

Journalism  in  the  service  of  literature  I  call  this — and  if 
t/good  journalism,  so  much  the  better  literature. 

We  are  fortunate  to  have  had  our  Kipling;  and  to 
have  him,  for  these  later  stories  promise  rare  achievements 
to  come.  The  journalizing  of  the  short  story  which  he 
stands  for  has  had  an  unfortunate  effect;  it  has  given  rise 
\  to  a  school  of  magazine  writers  to  whom  vividness  and 
S  immediate  interest  are  the  whole  of  art.  But  it  was  a 
logical,  an  inevitable  development;  and  must  run  its 
course.^  Just  at  present  the  conservative  reader  is  ap- 
palled by  the  avalanche  of  cheap  and  easy  stories  of  the 
Kipling  kind.  But  neither  the  thousand  machine-made 
imitations,  nor  the  imperfect  vessels  from  the  master's 
wheel,  impair  the  value  of  the  perfect  vase.  We  may 
disagree  with  Kiplingism,  and  deplore  the  Kiplingesque 
in  literature,  but  only  those  who  hate  the  romantic  in  any 
form  will  cry  down  the  type  romanticist  of  the  turn  of 
the  century. 

^Finally,  Kipling  is  the  most  American  of  all  English 
writers;  and  his  stories  belong  in  everything  but  the  ac- 
cident of  subject-matter  to  the  tradition  of  the  American 
short  story!) 

XVI 

THE  CONTEMPORARY  SHORT  STORY 

THE  great  authority  of  Stevenson  and  Kipling  has  not 
prevented  the  contemporary  short  story  from  being 
strongly  American  in  type;  and  when  the  debt  of  these 
two  writers  to  Hawthorne,  to  James,  and  to  Harte  is 
properly  weighed,  this  is  not  surprising.  Furthermore, 
while  it  is  true  that  good  short  stories  are  being  written 
in  England,  notably  by  Locke,  by  Merrick,  and  by  Doyle, 


The  Contemporary  Short  Story  73 

nevertheless,  if  we  except  Kipling  in  general,  and  Doyle 
in  the  detective  story,  and  remember  that  Conrad  and 
Hewlett  have  become  novelists,  it  will  probably  be  ad- 
mitted that  greater  merit  as  well  as  greater  quantity  are 
prevailingly  to  be  found  upon  this  side  of  the  water. 
The  American  short  story  is  usually  better  than  the  Eng- 
lish, as  the  English  novel  is  usually  better  than  the  Amer- 
ican. A  superficial  cause  may  be  found  in  the  popularity 
of  the  illustrated  magazine  in  America,  with  the  oppor- 
tunity it  offers  to  the  writer  of  the  short  story.  But  the 
real  causes  lie  deeper,  in  temperament,  in  environment, 
in  taste,  and  in  the  tradition  which  I  have  endeavored  to 
follow  in  these  pages. 

To  attempt  anything  like  a  detailed  criticism,  or  even  a 
classification,  of  modern  writers  of  the  short  story  is  be- 
yond the  scope  of  this  brief  survey,  and  the  powers  of 
the  writer.  The  short  story  of  1912  must  endure  time's 
sifting.  And  yet  some  characteristics  of  contemporary 
work  cannot  escape  observation,  although  they  may  be 
easily  misunderstood. 

The  form  established  by  the  nineteenth  century  does 
not  seem  to  be  materially  changing.  Thanks  to  magazine 
requirements,  American  stories  have  become  in  general 
shorter,  their  mechanism  more  obvious.  In  England,  two 
admirable  writers  were  for  a  time  apostles  of  a  freer, 
broader  handling  of  the  short-story  idea,  Maurice  Hew- 
lett, with  his  charming  Little  Novels  of  Italy  (1899), 
and  Joseph  Conrad  in  his  memorable  Youth  (1902). 
American  story-tellers  seem  to  be  binding  themselves 
more  and  more  strictly  to  a  rigorous  technique.  In  sub- 
ject, and,  so  to  speak,  in  mood,  there  has  been  a  little 
more  alteration.  And  yet,  in  comparison  with  the  new 
English  authors,  Wells,  Bennett,  and  Galsworthy,  writers 
of  short  stories  have  been  strangely  conservative.  The 


74          The  Contemporary  Short  Story 

romantic  story  of  the  brusque  and  adventurous  variety, 
which  Kipling  made  popular,  has  not  lost  its  vogue,  as  the 
success  of  such  writers  as  Owen  Wister,  Jack  London, 
Gouverneur  Morris,  and  R.  H.  Davis  proves.     The  psy- 
chological narrative  of  Henry  James  has  become,  with 
Miss  Wharton,  a  powerful  instrument  for  the  analysis  of 
American  individuality.     And  the  tendency  towards  mys- 
ticism which  Kipling  illustrated  has  certainly  not  abated. 
The  story  with  a  quip  to  it,  and  real  and  humorous  life 
for  a  subject,  fills  our  magazines,  and  has  found  at  least 
one  master  in  the  late  O.  Henry.      These  categories  pre- 
sent nothing  new ;  but  in  the  contemporary  representative 
of  the  local-color  story  there  is,  perhaps,  a  novelty.     The 
f  new  local  impressionist  takes  his  material  not  from  re- 
J  gions,  but  from  races  and  classes,  and  his  point  of  view  is 
^kmore  social  than  psychological.     Great  quantities  of  our 
short  stories  deal  with  the  immigrant:  the  Jew,  the  Pole, 
or  the  Japanese.     Others  take  an  industrial  instead  of  a 
racial  class,  and  depict  life  in  the  steel  mills,  the  mines, 
or  the  wheat  fields.     A  vivid  description  of  the  peculi- 
arities of  the  chosen  class  distinguishes  these  stories,  and 
it  is  here  that  the  vitality  of  local  color  shows  itself.     But 
there  is  also  a  social  consciousness  (very  different  from 
the   individualistic  self -consciousness  of  Kipling's  stories 
and  Harte's),  which  relates  this  work  to  some  of  the  pre- 
vailing tendencies  of  the  times,  and  suggests  the  "  social 
conscience  "  of  the  new  English  novel.     Often,  as  in  the 
light  sketches  of  O.  Henry  and  Montague  Glass,  only 
humorous  capital  is  made  of  the  class  characteristics  that 
give  the  tale  its  flavor;  but  again,  for  example  in  some  of 
/  the  narratives  of  the  "  muck-raking  "  school,  it  would  seem 
\that  local  color  has  cut  loose  from  the  romantic  move- 
Jment    which    inspired    it,    and    become    a    means    for    an 
1  imaginative  study  of  our  social  disorders.     It  is  the  new 


The  Contemporary  Short  Story  75 

.  journalized  magazine  which  has  encouraged  these  stories, 
V  and,  since  they  must  partake  of  the  character  of  news, 
j  it  is  not  surprising  to  find  them  more  vigorous  than 
\  artistic. 

*•     The  short  story  is  certainly  in  danger  from  its  pop- 
ularity.    That,  and  especially  its  adoption  by  the  news- 
papers, and  the  illustrated  newspapers  which  we  still  call 
magazines,    is    unquestionably    vulgarizing    the    product. 
There  is  a  premium  upon   all   that  is  or  can  be  made 
f  journalistic;  and  the  result  is  a  lack  of  style,  which  means 
I    usually  lack  of  thought,  and,  worse  still,  a  cheapness  and 
\  unsubstantially  in  the  materials  out  of  which  the  stories 
I  are  made.     What  can  be  expected  when  they  are  writ- 
ten for  publications  which  often  live  but  the  space  between 
press  and  dust-bin!     And  yet  only  a  literary  snob  could 
be  distressed  by  these  conditions.    In  some  of  our  weeklies, 
the  short  narratives  have   four   times   the   circulation   a 
Waverley  novel  could  command!     Millions  want  short 
stories;  no  talent  could  supply  literary  short  stories  for 
this  clamoring  multitude,  even  if  it  wanted  them.     Lit- 
erature must  be  bent  to  its  uses,  and  the  demerits  of  the 
many  need  not  trouble  us  if  there  is  merit  in  a  few. 

Unfortunately,  the  few  seem  to  be  governed  by  crit- 
ical standards  better  adapted  to  the  many.  If  one  may 
judge  by  the  current  magazines,  stories  must  be  respectable, 
even  when  vulgar ;  must  end  happily ;  must  lend  themselves 
to  illustration ;  must  appeal  to  the  average  woman ;  should 
contain  a  humorous  personality  (which  will  do  instead  of 
a  plot) :  restrictions  that  are  not  good  for  art.  With  a 
few  exceptions,  serious  work  is  not  given  a  free  hand — ex- 
cept in  the  humorous  story,  where  the  author  may  study 
man  or  woman  as  intensely  as  he  likes!  Triviality  may 
not  be  preferred — but  the  evidence  points  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Yet  the  short  story  has  been  raised  into  litera- 


76  The  Contemporary  Short  Story 

ture  only  in  those  fortunate  times  when  skill,  or  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  moment,  have  given  its  slight  fabric  a 
serious  purpose,  a  worthy  substance,  or  consummate  art. 
It  can  be  light,  it  can  be  graceful,  it  can  be  amusing,  it 
can  be  airy.  But  triviality  kills  it. 

The  short  story  is  also  in  danger  from  a  change  in 
taste ; — not  a  change  on  the  part  of  the  multitude  of  read- 
ers, for  to  that  it  would  respond ;  but  a  change  of  taste 
in  the  writers  who  really  count.  If,  as  H.  G.  Wells, 
brilliant  writer  of  both  short  stories  and  novels,  has  re- 
cently said,  the  social  changes  which  characterize  this  arc 
of  the  century  are  so  truly  societal  as  to  require  the  broad 
sweep  of  the  novel  to  record  them,  then,  indeed,  the  ever 
moving  tide  of  vital  literary  energy  may  take  a  new  di- 
rection, and  swing  its  main  currents  away  from  the  short 
story  through  which  it  has  flowed.  This  is  speculation 
merely ;  but  something  like  it  happened  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  again  at  the  turn  of  the  nineteenth,  when  the 
didactic  short  narrative  of  the  periodicals  disappeared.  • 

But  prophesying  is  poor  work.  It  is  better  to  stick  to 
facts,  and  to  point  out  what  seems  to  be  undeniably  true, 
that  it  is  far  easier  to  find  masterpieces  of  the  short  story 
in  the  half-century  before  1900  than  in  the  twelve 
years  after  that  date;  and  that  the  proportion  of 
memorable  short  stories  in  the  past  ten  years  seems  ut- 
terly and  ridiculously  out  of  keeping  with  the  whole 
number  produced.  When  the  dust  settles  we  may  think 
differently.  It  may  then  appear  that  the  vast  amount  of 
cheap  stuff  has  blinded  us  to  the  relative  importance  of 
Kipling's  rare  experiments  in  psychic  romance;  of  Miss 
Wharton's  character  analysis;  of  the  gems  of  local  color 
which  Mrs.  Wilkins-Freeman,  Mrs.  Deland,  and  others 
have  recently  given  us.  We  must  always  fight  against 
the  prejudice  (by  no  means  dead,  though  now  subter- 


The  Contemporary  Short  Story  77 

ranean)  against  fiction;  and  remember  that  a  perfect  short 
story,  because  ft  is  a  short  story,  will  be  strangely  under- 
valued in  comparison  with  artistically  second-rate  essay, 
drama,  or  verse.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  fair  conclusion  that 
unless  new  masters  arise  in  the  fields  of  journalism  whither 
we  are  trending,  art  will  not  be  so  well  served  by  the 
short  story  in  the  immediate  future  as  in  the  past. 


THE  PARDONERS  TALE  * 

BY  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 
Here  biginneth  the  Pardoners  Tale. 

IN  Flaundres  whylom  was  a  companye 

Of  yonge  folk,  that  haunteden  folye, 

As  ryot,  hasard,  stewes,  and  tavernes, 

Wher-as,  with  harpes,  lutes,  and  giternes,  5 

They  daunce  and  pleye  at  dees  bothe  day  and  night, 

And  etc  also  and  drinken  over  hir  might. 

THISE  ryotoures  three,  of  whiche  I  telle, 
Longe  erst  er  pryme  rong  of  any  belle, 
Were  set  hem  in  a  taverne  for  to  drinke;  10 

And  as  they  satte,  they  herde  a  belle  clinke 
Biforn  a  cors,  was  caried  to  his  grave; 
That  oon  of  hem  gan  callen  to  his  knave, 
'  Go  bet,'  quod  he,  '  and  axe  redily, 

What  cors  is  this  that  passeth  heer  forby;  15 

And  look  that  thou  reporte  his  name  \vel.' 

'  Sir,'  quod  this  boy,  '  it  nedeth  never-a-del. 
It  was  me  told,  er  ye  cam  heer,  two  houres; 
He  was,  pardee,  an  old  felavve  of  youres ; 

•GEOFFREY  CHAUCER  (  ?i340-i40o),  writer  of  this  story,  was 
the  chief  story-teller  of  the  fourteenth  century  in  England. 
His  Canterbury  Tales,  from  which  this  narrative  is  taken,  were 
probably  composed  in  the  years  after  1380.  The  plot  of  The 
Pardoner's  Tale  came  ultimately  from  the  Orient.  See  also 
pp.  3-12. 

79 


80  The  Short  Story 

And  sodeynly  he  was  y-slayn  to-night, 

For-dronke,  as  he  sat  on  his  bench  upright; 

Ther  cam  a  privee  theef,  men  clepeth   Deeth, 

That  in  this  contree  al  the  peple  sleeth, 
5  And  with  his  spere  he  smoot  his  herte  a-two, 

And  wente  his  wey  with-outen  wordes  mo. 

He  hath  a  thousand  slayn  this  pestilence : 

And,  maister,  er  ye  come  in  his  presence, 

Me  thinketh  that  it  were  necessarie 
10  For  to  be  war  of  swich  an  adversarie: 

Beth  redy  for  to  mete  him  evermore. 

Thus  taughte  me  my  dame,  I  sey  na-more.' 

'  By  seinte  Marie,'  seyde  this  taverner, 

'  The  child  seith  sooth,  for  he  hath  slayn  this  yeer$ 
15  Henne  over  a  myle,  with-in  a  greet  village, 

Both  man  and  womman,  child  and  hyne,  and  page. 

I  trowe  his  habitacioun  be  there; 

To  been  avysed  greet  wisdom  it  were, 

Er  that  he  dide  a  man  a  dishonour.' 
20 '  Ye,  goddes  armes,'  quod  this  ryotour, 

'  Is  it  swich  peril  with  him  for  to  mete? 

I  shal  him  seke  by  wey  and  eek  by  strete, 

I  make  avow  to  goddes  digne  bones! 

Herkneth,  felawes,  we  three  been  al  ones; 
25  Lat  ech  of  us  holde  up  his  hond  til  other, 

And  ech  of  us  bicomen  otheres  brother, 
.  And  we  wol  sleen  this  false  traytour  Deeth; 

He  shal  be  slayn,  which  that  so  many  sleeth, 

By  goddes  dignitee,  er  it  be  night.' 
30       Togidres  han  thise  three  her  trouthes  plight, 

To  live  and  dyen  ech  of  hem  for  other, 

As  though  he  were  his  owene  y-boreh  brother. 

And  up  they  sterte  all  dronken,  in  this  rage, 

And  forth  they  goon  towardes  that  village, 


The  Pardoners  Tale  8 1 

Of  which  the  taverner  had  spoke  biforn, 

And   many   a  grisly  ooth   than   han   they  sworn, 

And   Cristes  blessed   body   they   to-rente — 

'  Deeth  shal  be  deed,  if  that  they  may  him  hente.' 

Whan  they  han  goon  nat  fully  half  a  myle,  5 

Right  as  they  wolde  han  troden  over  a  style, 
An  old  man  and  a  povre  with  hem  mette. 
This  olde  man  ful  mekely  hem  grette, 
And  seyde  thus,  '  now,  lordes,  god  yow  see !  ' 

The  proudest  of  thise  ryotoures  three  10 

Answerde  agayn,   '  what  ?  carl,  with  sory  grace, 
Why  artow  al  forwrapped  save  thy  face? 
Why  livestow  so  longe  in  so  greet  age  ?  ' 

This  olde  man  gan  loke  in  his  visage, 
And  seyde  thus,  '  for  I  ne  can  nat  finde  15 

A  man,  though  that  I  walked  in-to  Inde, 
Neither   in   citee  nor  in   no  village, 
That  wolde  chaunge  his  youthe  for  myn  age; 
And  therfore  moot  I  han  myn  age  stille, 
As  longe  time  as  it  is  goddes  wille.  20 

Ne  deeth,  alias!  ne  wol  nat  han  my  iyf; 
Thus  walke   I,   lyk  a  restelees  caityf, 
And  on  the  ground,  which  is  my  modres  gate, 
I  knokke  with  my  staf,  bothe  erly  and  late, 
And  seye,  "  leve  moder,  leet  me  in !  25 

Lo,  how  I  vanish,  flesh,  and  blood,  and  skin! 
Alias!   whan  shul   my  bones  been   at   reste? 
Moder,  with  yow  wolde   I  chaunge  my  cheste, 
That  in  my  chambre  longe  tyme  hath  be, 
Ye!  for  an  heyre  clout  to  wrappe  me!"  30 

But  yet  to  me  she  wol  nat  do  that  grace, 
For  which  ful  pale  and  welked  is  my  face. 

But,  sirs,  to  yow  it  is  no  curteisye 
To  speken  to  an  old  man  vileinye, 


82  The  Short  Story 

But  he  trespasse  in  worde,  or  elles  in  dede. 
In  holy  writ  ye  may  your-self  wel  rede, 
"  Agayns  an  old  man,  hoor  upon  his  heed, 
Ye  sholde  aryse;"  wherfor  I  yeve  yow  reed, 
5  Ne  dooth  un-to  an  old  man  noon  harm  now, 
Na-more  than  ye  wolde  men  dide  to  yow 
In  age,  if  that  ye  so  longe  abyde; 
And  god  be  with  yow,  wher  ye  go  or  ryde. 
I  moot  go  thider  as  I   have   to   go.' 

10       '  Nay,  olde  cherl,  by  god,  thou  shalt  nat  so,' 
Seyde  this  other  hasardour  anon; 
'  Thou  partest  nat  so  lightly,  by  seint  John ! 
Thou  spak  right  now  of  thilke  traitour  Deeth, 
That  in  this  contree  alle  our  frendes  sleeth. 

15  Have  heer  my  trouthe,  as  thou  art  his  aspye, 
Tel  wher  he  is,  or  thou  shalt  it  abye, 
By  god,  and  by  the  holy  sacrament! 
For  soothly  thou  art  oon  of  his  assent, 
To  sleen  us  yonge  folk,  thou   false  theef ! ' 

20       '  Now,  sirs,'  quod  he,  '  if  that  yow  be  so  leef 
To  finde  Deeth,  turne  up  this  croked  wey, 
For  in  that  grove  I  lafte  him,  by  my  fey, 
Under  a  tree,  and  ther  he  wol  abyde; 
Nat  for  your  boost  he  wol  him  no-thing  hyde. 

25  See  ye  that  ook  ?  right  ther  ye  shul  him  finde. 
God   save   yow,   that   boghte  agayn   mankinde, 
And  yow  amende !  ' — thus  seyde  this  olde  man, 
And  everich  of  thise  ryotoures  ran, 
Til  he  cam  to  that  tree,  and  ther  they  founde 

30  Of  florins  fyne  of  golde  y-coyned  rounde 
Wel  ny  an  eighte  busshels,  as  hem  thoughte. 
No  lenger  thanne  after  Deeth  they  soughte, 
But  ech  of  hem  so  glad  was  of  that  sighte, 
For  that  the  florins  been  so  faire  and  brighte, 


The  Pardoners  Tale  83 

That  doun  they  sette  hem  by  this  precious  hord. 
The  worste  of  hem  he  spake  the  firste  word. 
'  Brethren,'  quod  he,  '  tak  kepe  what  I  seye; 
My  wit  is  greet,  though  that  I  bourde  and  pleye. 
This  tresor  hath  fortune  un-to  us  yiven,  5 

In  mirthe  and  jolitee  our  lyf  to  liven, 
And  lightly  as  it  comth,  so  wol  we  spende. 
Ey!   goddes  precious  dignitee!  who  wende 
To-day,  that  we  sholde  han  so  fair  a  grace? 
But  mighte  this  gold  be  caried   fro  this  place  10 

Hoom    to    myn    hous,    or    elles    un-to    youres — 
For  wel  ye  woot  that  al  this  gold  is  oures — 
Than  were  we  in  heigh  felicitee. 
But  trewely,   by  daye   it  may   nat  be; 
Men  wolde  seyn  that  we  were  theves  stronge,  15 

And  for  our  owene  tresor  doon  us  honge^ 
This  tresor   moste  y-caried   be   by   nighte 
As  wysly  and  as  slyly  as  it  mighte. 
Wherfore  I  rede  that  cut  among  us  alle 
Be  drawe,  and  lat  see  wher  the  cut  wol  falle;  20 

And  he  that  hath  the  cut  with  herte  blythe 
Shal  renne  to  the  toune,  and  that  ful  swythe, 
And  bringe  us  breed  and  wyn  ful  prively. 
And  two  of  us  shul  kepen  subtilly 

This  tresor  wel ;  and,  if  he  wol  nat  tarie,  25 

Whan  it  is  night,  we  wol  this  tresor  carie 
By  oon  assent,  wher-as  us  thinketh  best.' 
That  oon  of  hem  the  cut  broughte  in   his  fest; 
And  bad  hem  drawe,  and  loke  wher  it  wol  falle; 
And  it  fil  on  the  yongeste  of  hem  alle;  30 

And   forth  toward  the  toun  he  wente  anon. 
And  al-so  sone  as  that  he  was  gon, 
That  oon  of  hem  spak  thus  un-to  that  other, 
'  Thou   knowest  .wel   thou   art  my  sworne  brother, 


84  The  Short  Story 

Thy  profit  xvol   I  telle  thee  anon. 
Thou  woost  wel  that  our  felawe  is  agon; 
And  heer  is  gold,  and  that  ful  greet  plentee, 
That  shal   departed   been   among  us  three. 
5  But  natheles,  if  I  can  shape  it  so 
That  it  departed  were  among  us  two, 
Hadde  I  nat  doon  a  freendes  torn  to  thee?' 

That  other  answerde,   '  I   noot  how  that  may  be; 
He  woot  how  that  the  gold  is  with  us  tweye, 
10  What  shal  we  doon,  what  shal  we  to  him  seye?' 
'  Shal  it  be  conseil  ?  '  seyde  the  firste  shrewe, 
'  And  I  shal  tellen  thee,  in  wordes  fewe, 
What  we  shal   doon,   and   bringe   it   wel  aboute.' 

'  I  graunte,'  quod  that  other,  '  out  of  doute, 
15  That,  by  my  trouthe,  I  wol  thee  nat  biwreye.' 

'  Now,'  quod  the  firste,  '  thou  woost  wel  we  be  tweye, 
And  two  of  us  shul  strenger  be  than  oon. 
Look  whan  that  he  is  set,   and   right  anoon 
Arys,  as  though  thou  woldest  with  him  pleye; 
20  And  I  shal  ryve  him  thurgh  the  sydes  tweye 
Whyl  that  thou  strogelest  with  him  as  in  game, 
And  with  thy  dagger  look  thou  do  the  same; 
And  than  shal  al  this  gold  departed  be, 
My  dere  freend,  bitwixen  me  and  thee; 
25  Than  may  we  bothe  our  lustes  al  fulfille, 
And  pleye  at  dees  right  at  our  ovvene  wille.' 
And  thus  acorded  been  thise  shrevves  tweye 
To  sleen  the  thridde,  as  ye  han  herd  me  seye. 

This  yongest,  which  that  wente  un'to  the  toun, 
30  Ful  ofte  in  herte  he  rolleth  up  and  doun 

The  beautee  of  thise  florins  newe  and   brighte. 
4  O  lord ! '  quod  he,   '  if  so  were  that  I   mighte 
Have  al  this  tresor  to  my-self  allone, 
Ther  is  no  man  that  Jiveth  under  the  trone 


The  Pardoners  Tale  85 

Of  god,  that  sholde  live  so  mery  as  I ! ' 

And  atte  laste  the  feend,  our  enemy, 

Putte  in  his  thought  that  he  shold  poyson  beye, 

With  which  he  mighte  sleen  his  felawes  tweye; 

For-why  the   feend   fond  him   in   swich   lyvinge,  5 

That  he  had  leve  him  to  sorwe  bringe, 

For  this  was  outrely  his  fulle  entente 

To  sleen  hem  bothe,  and  never  to   repente. 

And  forth  he  gooth,  no  lenger  wolde  he  tarie, 

Into  the  toun,  un-to  a  pothecarie,  10 

And  preyed  him,  that  he  him  wolde  selle 

Som  poyson,  that  he  mighte  his  rattes  quelle; 

And  eek  ther  was  a  polcat  in  his  hawe, 

That,  as  he  seyde,  his  capouns  hadde  y-slawe, 

And  fayn  he  wolde  wreke  him,  if  he  mighte,  15 

On  vermin,  that  destroyed  him  by  nighte. 

The  pothecarie  answerde,  '  and  thou  shalt  have 
A  thing  that,  al-so  god  my  soule  save, 
In   al   this  world   ther   nis   no   creature, 
That  ete  or  dronke  hath  of  this  confiture  20 

Noght  but  the  mountance  of   a  corn  of  whete, 
That  he  ne  shal  his  lyf  anon  forlete; 
Ye,  sterve  he  shal,  and  that  in  lasse  whyle 
Than  thou  wolt  goon  a  paas  nat  but  a  myle; 
This  poyson   is  so  strong  and   violent.'  23 

This  cursed   man   hath   in  his  hond  y-hent 
This  poyson  in  a  box,  and  sith  he  ran 
In-to  the  nexte  strete,  un-to  a  man, 
And  borwed    [of]   him  large  hotels  three; 
And  in  the  two  his  poyson  poured  he ;  30 

The  thridde  he  kepte  clene  for  his  drinke. 
For  al  the  night  he  shoop  him  for  to  svvinke 
In  caryinge  of  the  gold  out  of  that  place. 
And  whan  this   ryotour,  with  sory  grace, 


86 

Had  filled  with  wyn  his  grete  hotels  three, 

To  his  felawes  agayn   repaireth  he. 

What  nedeth   it   to  sermone  of  it  more? 

For  right  as  they  had  cast  his  deeth  bifore, 
5  Right  so  they  han  him  slayn,  and  that  anon. 

And  whan   that   this  was   doon,  thus  spak  that  oon, 

'  Now  lat  us  sitte  and  drinke,  and  make  us  merie, 

And  afterward  we  wol  his  body  berie.' 

And  with  that  word  it  happed  him,  par  cas, 
10  To  take  the  hotel  ther  the  poyson  was, 

And  drank,  and  yaf  his  felawe  drinke  also, 

For  which  anon  they  storven  bothe  two. 
But,  certes,  I  suppose  that  Avicen 

Wroot  never  in  no  canon,  ne  in  no  fen,* 
15  Mo  wonder  signes  of  empoisoning 

Than  hadde  thise  wrecches  two,  er  hir  ending. 

Thus  ended  been  thise  homicydes  two, 

And  eek  the  false  empoysoner  also. 

Here  is  ended  the  Pardoners  Tale. 
*  Fen,  the  Arabic  name  of  the  sections  of  Avicenna's  Canon. 


THE  PRIORESSES  TALE  * 

BY  GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 

THER  was  in  Asie,  in  a  greet  citee, 

Amonges  Cristen  folk,  a  Jewerye, 

Sustened  by  a  lord  of  that  contree 

For  foule  usure  and  lucre  of  vilanye, 

Hateful  to  Crist  and  to  his  companye;  5 

And  thurgh  the  strete  men  mighte  ryde  or  wende, 

For  it  was  free,  and  open  at  either  ende. 

A  litel  scole  of  Cristen  folk  ther  stood 

Doun  at  the  ferther  ende,  in  which  ther  were 

Children  an  heep,  y-comen  of  Cristen  blood,  10 

That  lerned  in  that  scole  yeer  by  yere 

Swich  maner  doctrine  as  men   used   there, 

This  is  to  seyn,  to  singen  and  to  rede, 

As  smale  children  doon  in  hir  childhede. 

Among  thise  children  was  a  widwes  sone,  15 

A  litel  clergeon,  seven  yeer  of  age, 
That  day  by  day  to  scole  was  his  wone, 
And  eek  also,  wher-as  he  saugh  th'image 
Of  Cristes  moder,  hadde  he  in  usage, 

•  See  note  to  The  Pardoner's  Tale.  This  story  had  been  told 
by  earlier  writers,  but  never  before  so  well.  The  piety  and 
the  unjust  attack  upon  the  Jews  are  equally  characteristic  of 
the  Middle  Ages.  See  also  pp.  3-12. 

8? 


88  The  Short  Story 

As  him  was  taught,   to  knele  adoun  and  seyc 
His  Ave  Mane,  as  he  goth  by  the  weye. 

Thus  hath  this  widwe  hir  litel  sone  y-taught 
Our  blisful  lady,  Cristes  moder  dere, 
5  To  worshipe  ay,  and  he  forgat  it  naught, 
For  sely  child  wol  alday  sone  lere; 
But  ay,  whan  I  remembre  on  this  matere, 
Seint  Nicholas  stant  ever  in  my  presence, 
For  he  so  yong  to  Crist  did  reverence. 

10  This  litel  child,  his  litel  book  lerninge, 

As  he  sat  in  the  scole  at  his  prymer, 

He  Alma  redemptoris  herde  singe, 

As  children  lerned  hir  antiphoner; 

And,  as  he  dorste,  he  drough  him  ner  and  ner, 
15  And  herkned  ay  the  wordes  and  the  note, 

Til  he  the  firste  vers  coude  al  by  rote. 

Noght  wiste  he  what  this  Latin  was  to  seye, 
For  he  so  yong  and  tendre  was  of  age; 
But  on  a  day  his  felaw  gan  he  preye 
20  T'expounden  him  this  song  in  his  langage, 
Or  telle  him  why  this  song  was  in  usage; 
This   preyde   he   him   to   construe  and   declare 
Ful  ofte  tyme  upon  his  knowes  bare. 

His  felaw,  which  that  elder  was  than  he, 
25  Answerde  him  thus:  '  this  song,  I  have  herd  seye, 
Was  maked  of  our  blisful  lady  free, 
Hir  to  salue,  and  eek  hir  for  to  preye 
To  been  our  help  and  socour  whan  we  deye. 
I  can  no  more  expounde  in  this  matere; 
30  I  lerne  song,  I  can  but  smal  grammere.' 


The  Prioresses  Tale  89 

'  And  is  this  song  maked  in  reverence 

Of  Cristes  moder?'  seyde  this  innocent; 

'  Now  certes,  I  wol  do  my  diligence 

To  conne  it  al,  er  Cristemasse  is  went; 

Though  that  I  for  my  prymer  shal  be  shent,  5 

And  shal  be  beten  thryes  in  an  houre, 

I  wol  it  conne,  our  lady  for  to  honoure.' 

His  felaw  taughte  him  homward  prively, 

Fro  day  to  day,  til  he  coude  it  by  rote, 

And  than  he  song  it  wel  and  boldely  10 

Fro  word  to  word,  acording  with  the  note; 

Twyes  a  day  it  passed  thurgh  his  throte, 

To  scoleward  and  homward  whan  he  wente; 

On  Cristes  moder  set  was  his  entente. 

As  I  have  seyd,  thurgh-out  the  Jewerye  15 

This  litel   child,   as   he  cam   to  and   fro, 

Ful  merily  than  wolde  he  singe,  and  crye 

O   Alma  redemptoris  ever-mo. 

The  swetnes  hath  his  herte  perced  so 

Of  Cristes  moder,  that,  to  hir  to  preye,  20 

He  can  nat  stinte  of  singing  by  the  weye. 

Our  firste  fo,  the  serpent  Sathanas, 

That  hath  in  Jewes  herte  his  waspes  nest, 

Up  swal,  and  seide,  'O  Hebraik  peple,  alias! 

Is  this  to  yow  a  thing  that  is  honest,  25 

That  swich  a  boy  shal  walken  as  him  lest 

In  your  despyt,  and  singe  of  swich  sentence, 

Which  is  agayn  your  lawes  reverence?' 

Fro  thennes  forth  the  Jewes  han  conspyred 

This  innocent  out  of  this  world  to  chace;  30 

An  homicyde  ther-to  han  they  hyred, 


90  The  Short  Story 

That  in  an  aley  hadde  a  privee  place; 
And  as  the  child  gan  for-by  for  to  pace, 
This  cursed  Jew  him  hente  and  heeld  him  faste, 
And  kitte  his  throte,  and  in  a  pit  him  caste. 

5  I  seye  that  in  a  wardrobe  they  him  threwe 
Wher-as  these  Jewes  purgen  hir  entraille. 
O  cursed  folk  of  Herodes  al  newe, 
What  may  your  yvel  entente  yow  availle? 
Mordre  wol  out,  certein,  it  wol  nat  faille, 
10  And  namely  ther  th'onour  of  god  shal  sprede, 
The  blood  out  cryeth  on  your  cursed  dede. 

'  O  martir,  souded  to  virginitee, 
Now  maystou  singen,  folwing  ever  in  oon 
The   whyte   lamb  celestial,'   quod   she, 
15  '  Of  which  the  grete  evangelist,  seint  John, 

In   Pathmos  wroot,  which  seith   that   they  that   goon 
Biforn  this  lamb,  and  singe  a  song  al  newe, 
That  never,  fleshly,  wommen  they  ne  knewe.' 

This  povre  widwe  awaiteth  al  that  night 
20  After  hir  litel  child,  but  he  cam  noght; 
For  which,  as  sone  as  it  was  dayes  light, 
With  face  pale  of  drede  and  bisy  thoght, 
She  hath  at  scole  and  elles-wher  him  soght, 
Til  finally  she  gan  so  fer  espye 
25  That  he  last  seyn  was  in  the  Jewerye. 

With  modres  pitee  in  hir  brest  enclosed, 
She  gooth,  as  she  were  half  out  of  hir  minde, 
To  every  place  wher  she  hath  supposed 
By  lyklihede  hir  litel  child  to  finde; 
o  And  ever  on  Cristes  mode  meke  and  kinde 


The  Prioresses  Tale  91 

She  cryde,  and  atte  laste  thus  she  wroghte, 
Among  the  cursed  Jewes  she  him  soghte. 

She  frayneth  and  she  preyeth  pitously 

To  every  Jew  that  dwelte  in  thilke  place, 

To  telle  hir,  if  hir  child  wente  oght  for-by.  5 

They  seyde,  '  nay  ' ;  but  Jesu,  of  his  grace, 

Yaf  in  hir  thought,  inwith  a  litel  space, 

That  in  that  place  after  hir  sone  she  cryde, 

Wher  he  was  casten  in  a  pit  bisyde. 

O  grete  god,  that  parfournest  thy  laude  10 

By  mouth  of  innocents,  lo  heer  thy  might! 

This  gemme  of  chastitee,  this  emeraude, 

And  eek  of  martirdom  the  ruby  bright, 

Ther  he  with  throte  y-corven  lay  upright, 

He  'Alma  redemptoris'  gan  to  singe  15 

So  loude,  that  al  the  place  gan  to  ringe. 

The  Cristen  folk,  that  thurgh  the  strete  wente, 

In  coomen,   for  to  wondre  up-on  this  thing, 

And    hastily    they    for   the    provost    sente; 

He  cam  anon  with-outen  tarying,  20 

And  herieth  Crist  that  is  of  heven  king, 

And  eek   his  moder,   honour  of  mankinde, 

And  after  that,  the  Jewes  leet  he  binde. 

This  child  with  pitous  lamentacioun 

Up-taken  was,  singing  his  song  alway;  25 

And    with    honour   of   greet   processioun 

They  carien  him  un-to  the  nexte  abbay. 

His  moder  swowning  by  the  bere  lay; 

Unnethe  might  the  peple  that  \\as  there 

This  nevve  Rachel  bringe  fro  his  bere.  30 


92  The  Short  Story 

With  torment  and  with  shamful  deth  echon 
This  provost  dooth  thise  Jewes  for  to  sterve 
That  of  this  mordre  wiste,  and  that  anon; 
He  nolde  no  swich  cursednesse  observe. 
5  Yvel  shal  have,  that  yvel  wol  deserve. 
Therfor  with  wilde  hors  he  dide  hem  drawe, 
And  after  that  he  heng  hem  by  the  lawe. 

Up-on  his  bere  ay  lyth  this  innocent 
Biforn  the  chief  auter,  whyl  masse  laste, 
10  And  after  that,  the  abbot  with  his  covent 
Han  sped  hem  for  to  burien  him   ful   faste; 
And  whan  they  holy  water  on  him  caste, 
Yet  spak  this  child,  whan  spreynd  was  holy  water> 
And  song — 'O  Alma  redemptoris  mater! ' 

15  This  abbot,  which  that  was  an  holy  man 
As  monkes  been,  or  elles  oghten  be, 
This  yonge  child  to  conjure  he  bigan, 
And  seyde,  '  o  dere  child,  I  halse  thee, 
In   vertu   df   the   holy   Trinitee,. 

20  Tel  me  what  is  thy  cause  for  to  singe, 
Sith  that  thy  throte  is  cut,  to  my  seminge  ? ' 

'  My  throte  is  cut  un-to  my  nekke-boon,' 
Seyde  this  child,  '  and,  as  by  wey  of  kiiule, 
I  sholde  have  deyed,  ye,  longe  tyme  agoon, 
25  But  Jesu  Crist,  as  ye  in  bokes  finde, 
Wil  that  his  glorie  laste  and  be  in  minde; 
And,  for  the  worship  of  his  moder  dere, 
Yet  may  I  singe  "  O  Alma  "  loude  and  clere. 

This  welle  of  mercy,  Cristes  moder  swete, 
30 1  lovede  alwey,  as  after  my  conninge; 


The  Prioresses  Tale  93 

And  whan  that  I  my  lyf  sholde  forlete, 

To  me  she  cam,  and  bad  me  for  to  singe 

This  antem  verraily  in  my  deyinge, 

As  ye  han  herd,  and,  whan  that  I  had  songe, 

Me  thoughte,  she  leyde  a  greyn  up-on  my  tonge.  5 

Wherfor   I   singe,  and  singe   I   moot  certeyn 

In  honour  of  that  blisful  mayden  free, 

Til  fro  my  tonge  of-taken  is  the  greyn; 

And    afterward    thus   seyde   she    to   me, 

"  My   litel   child,   now   wol    I    fecche   thee  10 

Whan  that  the  greyn  is  fro  thy  tonge  y-take; 

Be  nat  agast,  I  wol  thee  nat  forsake."  ' 

This  holy  monk,  this  abbot,  him  mene  I, 

Him   tonge  out-caughte,   and   took   a-wey   the   greyn, 

And  he  yaf  up  the  goost  ful  softely.  15 

And  whan  this  abbot  had  this  wonder  seyn, 

His  sake  teres  trikled  doun  as  reyn, 

And  gruf  he  fil  al  plat  up-on  the  grounde, 

And  stille  he  lay  as  he  had  been  y-bounde. 

The  covent  eek  lay  on  the  pavement  20 

Weping,   and   herien   Cristes  moder   dere, 

And  after  that  they  ryse,  and  forth  ben  went, 

And  toke  awey  this  martir  fro  his  bere, 

And   in  a  tombe  of  marbul-stones  clere 

Enclosen  they  his  litel  body  swete;  25 

Ther  he  is  now,  god  leve  us  for  to  mete. 

O  yonge   Hugh  of  Lincoln,  slayn  also 
With  cursed   Jewes,   as  it   is  notable, 
For  it  nis  but  a  litel  whyle  ago; 


94  The  Short  Story 

Preye  eek  for  us,  we  sinful  folk  unstable, 
That,  of  his  mercy,  god  so  merciable 
On  us  his  grete  mercy  multiplye, 
For  reverence  of  his  moder  Marye.     Amen. 


THE  VISION  OF  MIRZA  * 

BY  JOSEPH  ADDISON 
No.  159.    SATURDAY,  SEPTEMBER  i.  [1711.] 

Omnem,  qua  nunc  obducta  tuenti 
Mortales  hebetat  visus  tibi,  et  hutnida  circum 
Call  gat,  nub  em  eripiam. — VIRG. 

WHEN   I  was  at  Grand  Cairo  I  picked  up  several  5 
oriental     manuscripts,     which     I     have     still     by     me. 
Among  others  I  met  with  one  entitled  "  The  Visions  of 
Mirzah,"  which  I  have  read  over  with  great  pleasure. 
I  intend  to  give  it  to  the  public  when  I  have  no  other 
entertainment  for  them;  and  shall  begin  with  the  first  10 
vision,  which  I  have  translated  word  for  word  as  follows. 

"  On  the  fifth  day  of  the  moon,  which  according  to 
the  custom  of  my  forefathers  I  always  keep  holy,  after 
having  washed  myself,  and  offered  up  my  morning  devo- 
tions, I  ascended  the  high  hills  of  Bagdat,  in  order  to  15 
pass  the  rest  of  the  day  in  meditation  and  prayer.  As  I 
was  here  airing  myself  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains, 
I  fell  into  a  profound  contemplation  on  the  vanity  of 
human  life;  and  passing  from  one  thought  to  another, 

•JOSEPH  ADDISON  (1672-1719),  chief  author  of  The  Spectator, 
in  which  this  story  appears  under  date  of  September  i,  1711, 
is  best  remembered  for  the  urbane  essays,  criticisms,  and  stories 
which  appeared  in  that  well-known  periodical,  and  as  one  of 
the  most  eminent  of  the  literary  men  of  the  reign  of  Queen 
Anne.  See  also  pp.  22-26,  30. 

95 


96  The  Short  Story 

'  Surely,'  said  I,  '  man  is  but  a  shadow  and  life  a  dream.1 
Whilst  I  was  thus  musing,  I  cast  my  eyes  towards  the 
summit  of  a  rock  that  was  not  far  from  me,  where  I  dis- 
covered one  in  the  habit  of  a  shepherd,  with  a  musical 

5  instrument  in  his  hand.  As  I  looked  upon  him  he  ap- 
plied it  to  his  lips,  and  began  to  play  upon  it.  The 
sound  of  it  was  exceeding  sweet,  and  wrought  into  a 
variety  of  tunes  that  were  inexpressibly  melodious,  and 
altogether  different  from  any  thing  I  had  ever  heard. 

10  They  put  me  in  mind  of  those  heavenly  airs  that  are 
played  to  the  departed  souls  of  good  men  upon  their 
first  arrival  in  Paradise,  to  wear  out  the  impressions  of 
their  last  agonies,  and  qualify  them  for  the  pleasures  of 
that  happy  place.  My  heart  melted  away  in  secret 

15  raptures. 

"  I  had  been  often  told  that  the  rock  before  me  was 
the  haunt  of  a  genius;  and  that  several  had  been  enter- 
tained with  music  who  had  passed  by  it,  but  never  heard 
that  the  musician  had  before  made  himself  visible.  When 

20  he  had  raised  my  thoughts,  by  those  transporting  airs 
which  he  played,  to  taste  the  pleasures  of  his  conversa- 
tion, as  I  looked  upon  him  like  one  astonished,  he  beckoned 
to  me,  and  by  the  waving  of  his  hand  directed  me  to  ap- 
proach the  place  where  he  sat.  I  drew  near  with  that 

25  reverence  which  is  due  to  a  superior  nature;  and  as  my 
heart  was  entirely  subdued  by  the  captivating  strains  I 
had  heard,  I  fell  down  at  his  feet  and  wept.  The  genius 
smiled  upon  me  with  a  look  of  compassion  and  affability 
that  familiarized  him  to  my  imagination,  and  at  once 

30  dispelled  all  the  fears  and  apprehensions  with  which  I 
approached  him.  He  lifted  me  from  the  ground,  and 
taking  me  by  the  hand,  '  Mirzah,'  said  he,  '  I  have  heard 
thee  in  thy  soliloquies,  follow  me.' 

"  He  then  led  me  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  rock, 


The  Vision  of  Mirza  97 

and  placing  me  on  the  top  of  it,  '  Cast  thy  eyes  eastward,' 
said  he,  '  and  tell  me  what  thou  seest.'  '  I  see,'  said  I, 
'  a  huge  valley  and  a  prodigious  tide  of  water  rolling 
through  it.'  '  The  valley  that  thou  seest,'  said  he,  '  is  the 
vale  of  misery,  and  the  tide  of  water  that  thou  seest,  is  5 
part  of  the  great  tide  of  eternity.'  '  What  is  the  rea- 
son,' said  I,  '  that  the  tide  I  see  rises  out  of  a  thick  mist 
at  one  end,  and  again  loses  itself  in  a  thick  mist  at  the 
other?'  '  What  thou  seest,'  said  he,  '  is  that  portion  of 
eternity  which  is  called  time,  measured  out  by  the  sun,  10 
and  reaching  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  to  its 
consummation.  Examine  now,'  said  he,  '  this  sea  that  is 
thus  bounded  with  darkness  at  both  ends,  and  tell  me 
what  thou  discoverest  in  it.'  '  I  see  a  bridge,'  said  I, 
'  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  tide.'  '  The  bridge  thou  15 
seest,'  said  he,  '  is  human  life;  consider  it  attentively.' 
Upon  a  more  leisurely  survey  of  it,  I  found  that  it  con- 
sisted of  threescore  and  ten  entire  arches,  with  several 
broken  arches,  which  added  to  those  that  were  entire, 
made  up  the  number  about  an  hundred.  As  I  was  count-  20 
ing  the  arches  the  genius  told  me  that  this  bridge  con- 
sisted at  first  of  a  thousand  arches;  but  that  a  great 
flood  swept  away  the  rest,  and  left  the  bridge  in  the 
ruinous  condition  I  now  beheld  it.  '  But  tell  me  further,' 
said  he,  '  what  thou  discoverest  on  it.'  25 

'  I  see  multitudes  of  people  passing  over  it,'  said  I, 
'  and  a  black  cloud  hanging  on  each  end  of  it.'  As  I 
looked  more  attentively,  I  saw  several  of  the  passengers 
dropping  through  the  bridge,  into  the  great  tide  that 
flowed  underneath  it ;  and  upon  further  examination,  per-  30 
ceived  there  were  innumerable  trap-doors  that  lay  con- 
cealed in  the  bridge,  which  the  passengers  no  sooner  trod 
upon,  but  they  fell  through  them  into  the  tide  and  imme- 
diately disappeared.  These  hidden  pit-falls  were  set  very 


thick  at  the  entrance  of  the  bridge,  so  that  throngs  of 
people  no  sooner  broke  through  the  cloud,  but  many  of 
them  fell  into  them.  They  grew  thinner  towards  the 
middle,  but  multiplied  and  lay  closer  together  towards 
5  the  end  of  the  arches  that  were  entire. 

"  There  were  indeed  some  persons,  but  "their  number 
was  very  small,  that  continued  a  kind  of  hobbling  march 
on  the  broken  arches,  but  fell  through  one  after  another, 
being  quite  tired  and  spent  with  so  long  a  walk. 

10  "  I  passed  some  time  in  the  contemplation  of  this  won- 
derful structure,  and  the  great  variety  of  objects  which  it 
presented.  My  heart  was  filled  with  a  deep  melancholy 
to  see  several  dropping  unexpectedly  in  the  midst  of  mirth 
and  jollity,  and  catching  at  every  thing  that  stood  by 

15  them  to  save  themselves.  Some  were  looking  up  towards 
the  heavens  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
speculation  stumbled  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Multitudes 
were  very  busy  in  the  pursuit  of  bubbles  that  glittered 
in  their  eyes  and  danced  before  them,  but  often  when 

20  they  thought  themselves  within  the  reach  of  them,  their 
footing  failed  and  down  they  sunk.  In  this  confusion 
of  objects,  I  observed  some  with  scimitars  in  their  hands, 
and  others  with  urinals,  who  ran  to  and  fro  upon  the 
bridge,  thrusting  several  persons  on  trap-doors  which 

35  did  not  seem  to  lie  in  their  way,  and  which  they  might 
have  escaped,  had  they  not  been  thus  forced  upon  them. 
"  The  genius  seeing  me  indulge  myself  in  this  melan- 
choly prospect,  told  me  I  had  dwelt  long  enough  upon  it: 
'  Take  thine  eyes  off  the  bridge,'  said  he,  '  and  tell  me  if 

30  thou  seest  any  thing  thou  dost  not  comprehend.'  Upon 
looking  up,  '  What  mean,'  said  I,  '  those  great  flights  of 
birds  that  are  perpetually  hovering  about  the  bridge,  and 
settling  upon  it  from  time  to  time?  I  see  vultures, 
harpies,  ravens,  cormorants ;  and  among  many  other 


The  Vision  of  Mirza  99 

feathered  creatures  several  little  winged  boys,  that  perch 
in  great  numbers  upon  the  middle  arches.'  '  These,'  said 
the  genius,  '  are  envy,  avarice,  superstition,  despair,  love, 
with  the  like  cares  and  passions  that  infest  human  life.' 

"  I  here  fetched  a  deep  sigh;  '  Alas,'  said  I,  '  man  was  5 
made  in  vain !  how  is  he  given  away  to  misery  and  mor- 
tality !   tortured   in   life,   and   swallowed   up   in   death ! ' 
The  genius,  being  moved  with  compassion  towards  me, 
bid  me  quit  so  uncomfortable  a  prospect.    '  Look  no  more,' 
said  he,  '  on  man  in  the  first  stage  of  his  existence,  in  his  10 
setting  out  for  eternity;  but  cast  thine  eye  on  that  thick 
mist  into  which  the  tide  bears  the  several  generations  of 
mortals  that  fall  into  it.'     I  directed  my  sight  as  I  was 
ordered,  and   (whether  or  no  the  good  genius  strength- 
ened  it  with  any  supernatural   force,  or  dissipated  part  15 
of  the  mist  that  was  before  too  thick  for  the  eye  to  pene- 
trate)  I  saw.  the  valley  opening  at  the  further  end,  and 
spreading  forth  into  an  immense  ocean,  that  had  a  huge 
rock  of  adamant  running  through  the  midst  of  it,  and 
dividing  it  into  two  equal  parts.     The  clouds  still  rested  20 
on  one  half  of  it,  insomuch  that  I  could  discover  nothing 
in  it:  but  the  other  appeared  to  me  a  vast  ocean  planted 
with  innumerable  islands,  that  were  covered  with  fruits 
and  flowers,  and  interwoven  with  a  thousand  little  shin- 
ing  seas   that    ran    among   them.      I    could    see    persons  25 
dressed  in  glorious  habits  with  garlands  upon  their  heads, 
passing  among  the  trees,  lying  down  by  the  sides  of  foun- 
tains, or  resting  on  beds  of  flowers ;  and  could  hear  a  con- 
fused  harmony  of  singing  birds,   falling  waters,   human 
voices,  and  musical   instruments.     Gladness  grew  in   me  30 
upon   the  discovery  of  so  delightful  a  scene.      I  wished 
for  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  that  I  might  fly  away  to  those 
happy  seats;  but  the  genius  told  me  there  was  no  pas- 
sage to  them,  except  through  the  gates  of  death  that  I  saw 


ioo  The  Short  Story 

opening  every  moment  upon  the  bridge.  '  The  islands,' 
said  he,  '  that  lie  so  fresh  and  green  before  thee,  and  with 
which  the  whole  face  of  the  ocean  appears  spotted  as  far 
as  thou  canst  see,  are  more  in  number  than  the  sands 
5  on  the  sea-shore ;  there  are  myriads  of  islands  behind 
those  which  thou  here  discoverest,  reaching  further  than 
thine  eye  or  even  thine  imagination  can  extend  itself. 
These  are  the  mansions  of  good  men  after  death,  who 
according  to  the  degree  and  kinds  of  virtue  in  which  they 

10  excelled,  are  distributed  among  these  several  islands,  which 
abound  with  pleasures  of  different  kinds  and  degrees, 
suitable  to  the  relishes  and  perfections  of  those  who  are 
settled  in  them;  every  island  is  a  paradise  accommodated 
to  its  respective  inhabitants.  Are  not  these,  O  Mirzah, 

15  habitations  worth  contending  for?  Does  life  appear  mis- 
erable, that  gives  thee  opportunities  of  earning  such  a 
reward?  is  death  to  be  feared  that  will  convey  thee  to 
so  happy  an  existence  ?  Think  not  man  was  made  in  vain, 
who  has  such  an  eternity  reserved  for  him.'  I  gazed 

20  with  inexpressible  pleasure  on  these  happy  islands.  At 
length  said  I,  '  Show  me  now,  I  beseech  thee,  the  secrets 
that  lie  hid  under  those  dark  clouds  which  cover  the 
ocean  on  the  other  side  of  the  rock  of  adamant.'  The 
genius  making  me  no  answer,  I  turned  about  to  address 

25  myself  to  him  a  second  time,  but  I  found  that  he  had 
left  me;  I  then  turned  again  to  the  vision  which  I 
had  been  so  long  contemplating,  but  instead  of  the  roll- 
ing tide,  the  arched  bridge,  and  the  happy  islands,  I  saw 
nothing  but  the  long  hollow  valley  of  Bagdat,  with  oxen, 

30  sheep,  and  camels,  grazing  upon  the  sides  of  it." 

0 

The  end  of  the  first  vision  of  Mirzah. 


THE  LINGERING  EXPECTATION  OF  AN 
HEIR* 

BY  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 
TUESDAY,  Nov.  27,   1750. 

Stulte,   quid   O   frustra   votis  ptterilibus   optas 
Qua  non  ulla  tulit,  fertve,  feretve  dies. — OVID. 

Why  thinks  the  fool,  with  childish  hope,  to  see 

What  neither  is,  nor  was,  nor  e'er  shall  be?  5 

— ELPHINSTON. 

TO  THE  RAMBLER 

SIR, 

If  you  feel  any  of  that  compassion  which  you  recom- 
mend to  others,  you  will  not  disregard  a  case  which  I  10 
have  reason   from   observation   to   believe   very  common, 
and  which  I   know  by  experience  to  be  very  miserable. 
And  though  the  querulous  are  seldom  received  with  great 
ardor  of  kindness,   I  hope  to  escape  the  mortification  of 
finding   that   my    lamentations   spread    the   contagion    of  15 
impatience,    and    produce   anger    rather   than    tenderness. 
I  write  not  merely  to  vent  the  swelling  of  my  heart,  but 
to  inquire  by  what  means  I  may  recover  my  tranquillity; 

•DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON  (1709-1784),  author  of  The  Rambler, 
a  short-lived  periodical  where  this  narrative  sketch  appeared 
under  date  of  November  27,  1750,  composed  the  first  great 
English  dictionary,  was  eminent  in  conversation  and  literary 
criticism,  and  has  been  made  eternally  famous  by  Boswell's 
great  biography.  See  also  pp.  22-26. 

101 


102  The  Short  Story 

and  shall  endeavor  at  brevity  in  my  narrative,  having  long 
known  that  complaint  quickly  tires,  however  elegant  or 
however  just. 

I  was  born  in  a  remote  county,  of  a  family  that  boasts 
5  alliances  with  the  greatest  names  in  English  history,  and 
extends  its  claims  of  affinity  to  the  Tudors  and  Plan- 
tagenets.  My  ancestors  by  little  and  little  wasted  their 
patrimony,  till  my  father  had  not  enough  left  for  the 
support  of  a  family,  without  descending  to  the  cultiva- 

10  tion  of  his  own  grounds,  being  condemned  to  pay  three 
sisters  the  fortunes  allotted  them  by  my  grandfather,  who 
is  suspected  to  have  made  his  will  when  he  was  in- 
capable of  adjusting  properly  the  claims  of  his  children, 
and  who,  perhaps,  without  design,  enriched  his  daughters 

15  by  beggaring  his  son.  My  aunts  being,  at  the  death  of  *heir 
father,  neither  young  nor  beautiful,  nor  very  eminent  for 
softness  of  behavior,  were  suffered  to  live  unsolicited,  and 
by  accumulating  the  interest  of  their  portions,  grew  every 
day  richer  and  prouder.  My  father  pleased  himself  with 

20  foreseeing  that  the  possessions  of  those  ladies  must  revert 
at  last  to  the  hereditary  estate,  and,  that  his  family  might 
lose  none  of  its  dignity,  resolved  to  keep  me  untainted 
with  a  lucrative  employment:  whenever  therefore  I  dis- 
covered any  inclination  to  the  improvement  of  my  condi- 

25  tion,  my  mother  never  failed  to  put  me  in  mind  of  my 

birth,  and  charged  me  to  do  nothing  with  which  I  might 

be  reproached  when  I  should  come  to  my   aunts'  estate. 

In   all   the   perplexities  or  vexations  which   want   of 

money  brought  upon  us,  it  was  our  constant  practice  to 

30  have  recourse  to  futurity.  If  any  of  our  neighbors  sur- 
passed us  in  appearance,  we  went  home  and  contrived 
an  equipage,  with  which  the  death  of  my  aunts  was  to 
supply  us.  If  any  purseproud  upstart  was  deficient  in 
respect,  vengeance  was  referred  to  the  time  in  which  our 


The  Lingering  Expectation  of  an  Heir    103 

estate  was  to  be  repaired.  We  registered  every  act  of 
civility  and  rudeness,  inquired  the  number  of  dishes  at 
every  feast,  and  minuted  the  furniture  of  every  house, 
that  we  might,  when  the  hour  of  affluence  should  come, 
be  able  to  eclipse  all  their  splendor,  and  surpass  all  their  5 
magnificence. 

Upon  plans  of  elegance,  and  schemes  of  pleasure,  the 
day  rose  and  set,  and  the  year  went  around  unregarded, 
while  we  were  busied  in  laying  our  plantations  on  ground 
not  yet  our  own,  and  deliberating  whether  the  manor-  10 
house    should    be    rebuilt    or    repaired.     This     was    the 
amusement  of  our  leisure,  and  the  solace  of  our  exigences ; 
we  met  together  only  to  contrive  how  our  approaching 
fortune  should  be  enjoyed ;  for  in  this  our  conversation 
always  ended,  on  whatever  subject  it  began.     We  had  15 
none  of  the  collateral  interests,  which  diversify  the  life 
of  others  with  joys  and  hopes,  but  had  turned  our  whole 
attention  on  one  event,  which  we  could   neither  hasten 
nor  retard,  and  had  no  other  object  of  curiosity  than  the 
health  or  sickness  of  my  aunts,  of  which  we  were  careful  20 
to  procure  very  exact  and  early  intelligence. 

This  visionary  opulence  for  a  while  soothed  our  imagi- 
nation, but  afterward  fired  our  wishes,  and  exasperated 
our  necessities,  and  my  father  could  not  always  restrain 
himself  from  exclaiming,  that  no  creature  had  so  many  25 
lives  as  a  cat  and  an  old  maid.  At  last  upon  the  recovery 
of  his  sister  from  an  ague,  which  she  was  supposed  to  have 
caught  by  sparing  fire,  he  began  to  lose  his  stomach,  and 
four  months  afterwards  sunk  into  the  grave. 

My  mother,  who  loved  her  husband,  survived  him  but  30 
a  little  while,  and  left  me  the  sole  heir  of  their  lands, 
their  schemes,  and  their  wishes.     As  I  had  not  enlarged 
my  conceptions  either  by  books  or  conversation,    I   dif- 
fered only  from  my  father  by  the  freshness  of  my  cheeks, 


IO4  The  Short  Story 

and  the  vigor  of  my  step:  and,  like  him,  gave  way  to  no 
thoughts  but  of  enjoying  the  wealth  which  my  aunts 
were  hoarding. 

At  length  the  eldest  fell  ill.  I  paid  the  civilities  and 
5  compliments  which  sickness  requires  with  the  utmost 
punctuality.  I  dreamed  every  night  of  escutcheons  and 
white  gloves,  and  inquired  every  morning  at  an  early 
hour,  whether  there  were  any  news  of  my  dear  aunt. 
At  last  a  messenger  was  sent  to  inform  me  that  I  must 

10  come  to  her  without  the  delay  of  a  moment.  I  went  and 
heard  her  last  advice,  but  opening  her  will,  found  that 
she  had  left  her  fortune  to  her  second  sister. 

I  hung  my  head;  the  youngest  sister  threatened  to  be 
married,  and  every  thing  was  disappointment  and  dis- 

15  content.  I  was  in  danger  of  losing  irreparably  one- 
third  of  my  hopes,  and  was  condemned  still  to  wait  for 
the  rest.  Of  part  of  my  terror  I  was  soon  eased ;  for 
the  youth,  whom  his  relations  would  have  compelled  to 
marry  the  old  lady,  after  innumerable  stipulations,  arti- 

20  cles,  and  settlements,  ran  away  with  the  daughter  of  his 
father's  groom ;  and  my  aunt,  upon  this  conviction  of 
the  perfidy  of  man,  resolved  never  to  listen  more  to 
amorous  addresses. 

Ten  years  longer  I  dragged  the  shackles  of  expecta- 

25  tion,  without  ever  suffering  a  day  to  pass  in  which  I 
did  not  compute  how  much  my  chance  was  improved  of 
being  rich  to-morrow.  At  last  the  second  lady  died, 
after  a  short  illness,  which  yet  was  long  enough  to  afford 
her  time  for  the  disposal  of  her  estate,  which  she  gave 

30  to  me  after  the  death  of  her  sister. 

I  was  now  relieved  from  part  of  my  misery;  a  large 
fortune,  though  not  in  my  power,  was  certain  and  un- 
alienable;  nor  was  there  now  any  danger  that  I  might 
at  last  be  frustrated  of  my  hopes  by  fret  of  dotage,  the 


The  Lingering  Expectation  of  an  Heir    105 

flatteries  of  a  chamber-maid,  the  whispers  of  a  tale- 
bearer, or  the  officiousness  of  a  nurse.  But  my  wealth 
was  yet  in  reversion,  my  aunt  was  to  be  buried  before 
I  could  emerge  to  grandeur  and  pleasure;  and  there  was 
yet,  according  to  my  father's  observation,  nine  lives  be-  5 
tween  me  and  happiness. 

I  however  lived  on,  without  any  clamors  of  discon- 
tent, and  comforted  myself  with  considering  that  all  are 
mortal,  and  they  who  are  continually  decaying,  must  at 
last  be  destroyed.  10 

But  let  no  man  from  this  time  suffer  his  felicity  to 
depend  on  the  death  of  his  aunt.  The  good  gentle- 
woman was  very  regular  in  her  hours,  and  simple  in  her 
diet;  and  in  walking  or  sitting  still,  waking  or  sleeping, 
had  always  in  view  the  preservation  of  her  health.  She  15 
was  subject  to  no  disorder  but  hypochondriac  dejection ; 
by  which,  without  intention,  she  increased  my  miseries, 
for  whenever  the  weather  was  cloudy,  she  would  take 
her  bed  and  send  me  notice  that  her  time  was  come^  I 
went  with  all  the  haste  of  eagerness,  and  sometimes  re-  20 
ceived  passionate  injunctions  to  be  kind  to  her  maid,  and 
directions  how  the  last  offices  should  be  performed ;  but  if 
before  my  arrival  the  sun  happened  to  break  out,  or 
the  wind  to  change,  I  met  her  at  the  door,  or  found  her 
in  the  garden,  bustling  and  vigilant,  with  all  the  tokens  25 
of  long  life. 

Sometimes,  however,  she  fell  into  distempers,  and  was 
thrice  given  over  by  the  doctor,  yet  she  found  means  of 
slipping  through  the  gripe  of  death,  and  after  having 
tortured  me  three  months  at  each  time  with  violent  alter-  30 
nations  of  hope  and  fear,  came  out  of  her  chamber  with- 
out any  other  hurt  than  the  loss  of  flesh,  which  in  a  few 
weeks  she  recovered  by  broths  and  jellies. 

As  most  have  sagacity  sufficient  to  guess  at  the  desires 


106  The  Short  Story 

of  an  heir,  it  was  the  constant  practice  of  those  who  were 
hoping  at  second  hand,  and  endeavored  to  secure  my  favor 
against  the  time  when  I  should  be  rich,  to  pay  their  court, 
by  informing  me  that  my  aunt  began  to  droop,  that  she 
5  had  lately  a  bad  night,  that  she  coughed  feebly,  and  that 
she  could  never  climb  May  hill;  or,  at  least,  that  the 
autumn  would  carry  her  off.  Thus  was  I  flattered  in 
the  winter  with  the  piercing  winds  of  March,  and  in 
the  summer  with  the  fogs  of  September.  But  she  lived 

10  through  spring  and  fall  and  set  heat  and  cold  at  defi- 
ance, till,  after  nearly  half  a  century,  I  buried  her  on  the 
fourteenth  of  last  June,  aged  ninety-three  years,  five 
months,  and  six  days. 

For  two  months  after  her  death  I  was  rich,  and  was 

15  pleased  with  that  obsequiousness  and  reverence  which 
wealth  instantaneously  procures.  But  this  joy  is  now  past, 
and  -I  have  returned  again  to  my  old  habit  of  wishing. 
Being  accustomed  to  give  the  future  full  power  over  my 
mind,  and  to  start  away  from  the  scene  before  me  to  some 

20  expected  enjoyment,  I  deliver  up  myself  to  the  tyranny 
of  every  desire  which  fancy  suggests,  and  long  for  a 
thousand  things  which  I  am  unable  to  procure.  Money 
has  much  less  power  than  is  ascribed  to  it  by  those 
that  want  it.  I  had  formed  schemes  which  I  cannot 

25  execute,  I  had  supposed  events  which  do  not  come  to 
pass,  and  the  rest  of  my  life  must  pass  in  craving  solici- 
tude, unless  you  can  find  some  remedy  for  a  mind  cor- 
rupted with  an  inveterate  disease  of  wishing,  and  unable 
to  think  on  any  thing  but  wants,  which  reason  tells  me 

30  will  never  be  supplied. 

I  am,  &c., 

CUPIDUS, 


WANDERING  WILLIE'S  TALE  * 
BY  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

"  HONEST  folks  like  me!  How  do  ye  ken  whether  I 
am  honest,  or  what  I  am?  I  may  be  the  deevil  himsell 
for  what  ye  ken,  for  he  has  power  to  come  disguised  like 
an  angel  of  light;  and,  besides,  he  is  a  prime  fiddler.  He 
played  a  sonata  to  Corelli,  ye  ken."  5 

There  was  something  odd  in  this  speech,  and  the  tone 
in  which  it  was  said.  It  seemed  as  if  my  companion  was 
not  always  in  his  constant  mind,  or  that  he  was  willing 
to  try  if  he  could  frighten  me.  I  laughed  at  the  ex- 
travagance of  his  language,  however,  and  asked  him  in  10 
reply  if  he  was  fool  enough  to  believe  that  the  foul  fiend 
would  play  so  silly  a  masquerade. 

"  Ye  ken  little  about  it — little  about  it,"  said  the  old 
man,  shaking  his  head  and  beard,  and  knitting  his  brows. 
"  I  could  tell  ye  something  about  that."  15 

What  his  wife  mentioned  of  his  being  a  tale-teller  as 
well  as  a  musician  now  occurred  to  me;  and  as,  you  know, 
I  like  tales  of  superstition,  I  begged  to  have  a  specimen 
of  his  talent  as  we  went  along. 

"  It  is  very  true,"  said  the  blind  man,  "  that  when  I  20 
am  tired  of  scraping  thairm  or  singing  ballants  I  whiles 
make  a  tale  serve  the  turn  among  the  country  bodies;  and 

•SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  (1771-1832),  poet  and  novelist,  included 
this  story  in  Redgauntlet  (1824),  a  novel  belonging  to  that 
Waverley  series  which  gave  this  writer  his  most  enduring 
rights  to  fame.  See  also  pp.  26-30. 

107 


io8  The  Short  Story 

I  have  some  fearsome  anes,  that  make  the  auld  carlines 
shake  on  the  settle,  and  the  bits  o'  bairns  skirl  on  their 
minnies  out  frae  their  beds.  But  this  that  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  was  a  thing  that  befell  in  our  ain  house  in  my 
5  father's  time — that  is,  my  father  was  then  a  hafflins  cal- 
lant;  and  I  tell  it  to  you,  that  it  may  be  a  lesson  to  you 
that  are  but  a  young  thoughtless  chap,  wha  ye  draw  up  wi' 
on  a  lonely  road;  for  muckle  was  the  dool  and  care  that 
came  o'  't  to  my  gudesire." 

10  He  commenced  his  tale  accordingly,  in  a  distinct  nar- 
rative tone  of  voice,  which  he  raised  and  depressed  with 
considerable  skill ;  at  times  sinking  almost  into  a  whis- 
per, and  turning  his  clear  but  sightless  eyeballs  upon  my 
face,  as  if  it  had  been  possible  for  him  to  witness  the  im- 

15  pression  which  his  narrative  made  upon  my  features.  I 
will  not  spare  a  syllable  of  it,  although  it  be  of  the  long- 
est; so  I  make  a  dash — and  begin: 

Ye  maun  have  heard  of  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet  of  that 
ilk,  who  lived  in  these  parts  before  the  dear  years.  The 

20  country  will  lang  mind  him ;  and  our  fathers  used  to 
draw  breath  thick  if  ever  they  heard  him  named.  He  was 
out  wi'  the  Hielandmen  in  Montrose's  time;  and  again  he 
was  in  the  hills  wi'  Glencairn  in  the  saxteen  hundred  and 
fifty-twa;  and  sae  when  King  Charles  the  Second  came  in, 

25  wha  was  in  sic  favor  as  the  laird  of  Redgauntlet  ?  He 
was  knighted  at  Lonon  Court,  wi'  the  king's  ain  sword ; 
and  being  a  red-hot  prelatist,  he  came  down  here,  ram- 
pauging  like  a  lion,  with  commissions  of  lieutenancy  (and 
of  lunacy,  for  what  I  ken),  to  put  down  a'  the  Whigs 

30  and  Covenanters  in  the  country.  Wild  wark  they  made 
of  it;  for  the  Whigs  were  as  dour  as  the  Cavaliers  were 
fierce,  and  it  was  which  should  first  tire  the  other.  Red- 
gauntlet  was  aye  for  the  strong  hand;  and  his  name  is 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  109 

kend  as  wide  in  the  country  as  Claverhouse's  or  Tarn 
Dalyell's.  Glen,  nor  dargle,  nor  mountain,  nor  cave 
could  hide  the  puir  hill-folk  when  Redgauntlet  was  out 
with  bugle  and  bloodhound  after  them,  as  if  they  had 
been  sae  mony  deer.  And,  troth,  when  they  fand  them,  5 
they  didna  make  muckle  mair  ceremony  than  a  Hieland- 
man  wi'  a  roebuck.  It  was  just,  "  Will  ye  tak'  the 
test?"  If  not — "Make  ready — present — fire!"  and 
there  lay  the  recusant. 

Far  and  wide  was  Sir  Robert  hated  and  feared.     Men  10 
thought  he  had  a  direct  compact  with  Satan;  that  he  was 
proof  against  steel  and  that  bullets  happed  aff  his  buff- 
coat  like  hailstanes  from  a  hearth ;  that  he  had  a  mear  that 
would  turn  a  hare  on  the  side  of  Carrif ra-gauns  ;*  and 
muckle  to  the  same  purpose,  of  whilk  mair  anon.     The  15 
best  blessing  they  wared  on  him  was,  "  Deil  scowp  wi' 
Redgauntlet !  "     He  wasna  a  bad  master  to  his  ain  folk, 
though,  and  was  weel  aneugh  liked  by  his  tenants;  and  as 
for  the  lackeys  and  troopers  that  rade  out  wi'  him  to  the 
persecutions,  as  the  Whigs  caa'd  those  killing-times,  they  20 
wad  hae  drunken  themsells  blind  to  his  health  at  ony  time. 

Now  you  are  to  ken  that  my  gudesire  lived  on  Red- 
gauntlet's  grund — they  ca'  the  place  Primrose  Knowe. 
We  had  lived  on  the  grund,  and  under  the  Redgauntlets, 
since  the  riding-days,  and  lang  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  25 
bit;  and  I  think  the  air  is  callerer  and  fresher  there  than 
onywhere  else  in  the  country.  It  's  a'  deserted  now;  and 
I  sat  on  the  broken  door-cheek  three  days  since,  and 
was  glad  I  couldna  see  the  plight  the  place  was  in — but 
that  's  a'  wide  o'  the  mark.  There  dwelt  my  gudesire,  30 
Steenie  Steenson;  a  rambling,  rattling  chiel'  he  had  been 
in  his  young  days,  and  could  play  weel  on  the  pipes;  he 
was  famous  at  "  hoopers  and  girders,"  a'  Cumberland 

*  A  precipitous  side  of  a  mountain  in  Moffatdale. 


no  The  Short  Story 

couldna  touch  him  at  "  Jockie  Lattin,"  and  he  had  the 
finest  finger  for  the  back-lilt  between  Berwick  and  Car- 
lisle. The  like  o'  Steenie  wasna  the  sort  that  they  made 
Whigs  o'.  And  so  he  became  a  Tory,  as  they  ca'  it, 

5  which  we  now  ca'  Jacobites,  just  out  of  a  kind  of  need- 
cessity,  that  he  might  belang  to  some  side  or  other.  He 
had  nae  ill-will  to  the  Whig  bodies,  and  liked  little  to  see 
the  blude  rin,  though,  being  obliged  to  follow  Sir  Robert' 
in  hunting  and  hoisting,  watching  and  warding,  he  saw 

10  muckle  mischief,  and  maybe  did  some  that  he  couldna 
avoid. 

Now  Steenie  was  a  kind  of  favorite  with  his  master, 
and  kend  a'  the  folk  about  the  castle,  and  was  often  sent 
for  to  play  the  pipes  when  they  were  at  their  merriment. 

15  Auld  Dougal  MacCallum,  the  butler,  that  had  followed 
Sir  Robert  through  gude  and  ill,  thick  and  thin,  pool  and 
stream,  was  specially  fond  of  the  pipes,  and  aye  gae  my 
gudesire  his  gude  wurd  wi'  the  laird;  for  Dougal  could 
turn  his  master  round  his  finger. 

20  Weel,  round  came  the  Revolution,  and  it  had  like  to 
hae  broken  the  hearts  baith  of  Dougal  and  his  master. 
But  the  change  was  not  a'thegether  sae  great  as  they 
feared  and  other  folk  thought  for.  The  Whigs  made  an 
unco  crawing  what  they  wad  do  with  their  auld  enemies, 

25  and  in  special  wi'  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet.  But  there 
were  owermony  great  folks  dipped  in  the  same  doings  to 
make  a  spick-and-span  new  warld.  So  Parliament  passed 
it  a'  ower  easy;  and  Sir  Robert,  bating  that  he  was  held 
to  hunting  foxes  instead  of  Covenanters,  remained  just 

30  the  man  he  was.*     His  revel  was  as  loud,  and  his  hall 

*  The  caution  and  moderation  of  King  William  III.,  and  his 
principles  of  unlimited  toleration,  deprived  the  Cameronians 
of  the  opportunity  they  ardently  desired,  to  retaliate  the  in- 
juries which  they  had  received  during  the  reign  of  prelacy, 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  in 

as  weel  lighted,  as  ever  it  had  been,  though  maybe  he 
lacked  the  fines  of  the  nonconformists,  that  used  to  come 
to  stock  his  larder  and  cellar;  for  it  is  certain  he  began 
to  be  keener  about  the  rents  than  his  tenants  used  to  find 
him  before,  and  they  behooved  to  be  prompt  to  the  rent-  5 
day,  or  else  the  laird  wasna  pleased.  And  he  was  sic  an 
avvsome  body  that  naebody  cared  to  anger  him;  for  the 
oaths  he  swore,  and  the  rage  that  he  used  to  get  into,  and 
the  looks  that  he  put  on  made  men  sometimes  think  him 
a  devil  incarnate.  10 

Weel,  my  gudesire  was  nae  manager — no  that  he  was 
a  very  great  misguider — but  he  hadna  the  saving  gift, 
and  he  got  twa  terms'  rent  in  arrear.  He  got  the  first 
brash  at  Whitsunday  put  ower  wi'  fair  word  and  piping; 
but  when  Martinmas  came  there  was  a  summons  from  the  15 
grund  officer  to  come  wi'  the  rent  on  a  day  preceese,  or 
else  Steenie  behooved  to  flit.  Sair  wark  he  had  to  get  the 
siller;  but  he  was  weel  freended,  and  at  last  he  got  the 
haill  scraped  thegether — a  thousand  merks.  The  maist  of 
it  was  from  a  neighbor  they  caa'd  Laurie  Lapraik — a  sly  20 
tod.  Laurie  had  wealth  o'  gear,  could  hunt  wi'  the 
hound  and  rin  wi'  the  hare,  and  be  Whig  or  Tory,  saunt 
or  sinner,  as  the  wind  stood.  He  was  a  professor  in  this 
Revolution  warld,  but  he  liked  an  orra  sough  of  this 
warld,  and  a  tune  on  the  pipes,  weel  aneugh  at  a  by-  25 
•time;  and,  bune  a',  he  thought  he  had  gude  security  for 
the  siller  he  len  my  gudesire  ower  the  stocking  at  Prim- 
rose Knowe. 

Away  trots  my  gudesire  to  Redgauntlet  Castle  wi'  a 


and    purify  the   land,   as  they  called   it,   from  the   pollution  of  30 
blood.     They  esteemed  the  Revolution,  therefore,  only  a   half- 
measure,   which    neither  comprehended   the   rebuilding  the   kirk 
in  its  full  splendor,  nor  the  revenge  of  the  death  of  the  saints 
on    their   persecutors. 


H2  The  Short  Story 

heavy  purse  and  a  light  heart,  glad  to  be  out  of  the 
laird's  danger.  Weel,  the  first  thing  he  learned  at  the 
castle  was  that  Sir  Robert  had  fretted  himsell  into  a  fit 
of  the  gout  because  he  did  no  appear  before  twelve  o'clock. 
5  It  wasna  a'thegether  for  sake  of  the  money,  Dougal 
thought,  but  because  he  didna  like  to  part  wi'  my  gude- 
sire  aff  the  grund.  Dougal  was  glad  to  see  Steenie,  and 
brought  him  into  the  great  oak  parlor;  and  there  sat  the 
laird  his  leesome  lane,  excepting  that  he  had  beside  him 

10  a  great,  ill-favored  jackanape  that  was  a  special  pet  of  his. 
A  cankered  beast  it  was,  and  mony  an  ill-natured  trick 
it  played;  ill  to  please  it  was,  and  easily  angered — ran 
about  the  haill  castle,  chattering  and  rowling,  and  pinch- 
ing and  biting  folk,  specially  before  ill  weather,  or  dis- 

15  turbance  in  the  state.  Sir  Robert  caa'd  it  Major  Weir, 
after  the  warlock  that  was  burnt;*  and  few  folk  liked 
either  the  name  or  the  conditions  of  the  creature — they 
thought  there  was  something  in  it  by  ordinar — and  my 
gudesire  was  not  just  easy  in  mind  when  the  door  shut  on 

20  him,  and  he  saw  himsell  in  the  room  wi'  naebody  but 
the  laird,  Dougal  MacCallum,  and  the  major — a  thing 
that  hadna  chanced  to  him  before. 

Sir  Robert  sat,  or,  I  should  say,  lay,  in  a  great  arm- 
chair, wi'  his  grand  velvet  gown,  and  his  feet  on  a  cradle ; 

25  for  he  had  baith  gout  and  gravel,  and  his  face  looked 
as  gash  and  ghastly  as  Satan's.  Major  Weir  sat  oppo- 
site to  him,  in  a  red-laced  coat,  and  the  laird's  wig  on 
his  head;  and  aye  as  Sir  Robert  girned  wi'  pain,  the 
jackanape  girned  too,  like  a  sheep's  head  between  a  pair 

30  of  tangs — an  ill-faur'd,  fearsome  couple  they  were.  The 
laird's  buff-coat  was  hung  on  a  pin  behind  him,  and  his 
broadsword  and  his  pistols  within  reach;  for  he  keepit  up 

*  A   celebrated    wizard,    executed    at    Edinburgh    for    sorcery 
and   other   crimes. 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  113 

the  auld  fashion  of  having  the  weapons  ready,  and  a  horse 
saddled  day  and  night,  just  as  he  used  to  do  when  he 
was  able  to  loup  on  horseback,  and  sway  after  ony  of 
the  hill-folk  he  could  get  speerings  of.  Some  said  it  was 
for  fear  of  the  Whigs  taking  vengeance,  but  I  judge  it  5 
was  just  his  auld  custom — he  wasna  gine  not  fear  ony- 
thing.  The  rental-book,  wi'  its  black  cover  and  brass 
clasps,  was  lying  beside  him ;  and  a  book  of  sculduddery 
sangs  was  put  betwixt  the  leaves,  to  keep  it  open  at  the 
place  where  it  bore  evidence  against  the  goodman  of  10 
Primrose  Knowe,  as  behind  the  hand  with  his  mails  and 
duties.  Sir  Robert  gave  my  gudesire  a  look,  as  if  he  would 
have  withered  his  heart  in  his  bosom.  Ye  maun  ken  he 
had  a  way  of  bending  his  brows  that  men  saw  the  visible 
mark  of  a  horseshoe  in  his  forehead,  deep-tinted,  as  if  it  15 
had  been  stamped  there. 

"  Are  ye  come  light-handed,  ye  son  of  a  loom  whistle?  " 
said  Sir  Robert.    "  Zounds !  if  you  are " 

My  gudesire,  with  as  gude  a  countenance  as  he  could 
put  on,  made  a  leg,  and  placed  the  bag  of  money  on  the  20 
table  wi'  a  dash,  like  a  man  that  does  something  clever. 
The   laird   drew    it    to    him    hastily.      "  Is   it   all   here, 
Steenie,  man?  " 

"  Your  honor  will  find  it  right,"  said  my  gudesire. 

"  Here,  Dougal,"  said  the  laird,  "  gie  Steenie  a  tass  of  25 
brandy,  till  I  count  the  siller  and  write  the  receipt." 

But  they  werena  weel  out  of  the  room  when  Sir  Rob- 
ert gied  a  yelloch  that  garr'd  the  castle  rock.  Back  ran 
Dougal ;  in  flew  the  liverymen ;  yell  on  yell  gied  the  laird, 
ilk  ane  mair  awfu'  than  the  ither.  My  gudesire  knew  not  30 
whether  to  stand  or  flee,  but  he  ventured  back  into  the 
parlor,  where  a'  was  gaun  hirdie-girdie — naebody  to  say 
"  come  in  "  or  "  gae  out."  Terribly  the  laird  roared 
for  cauld  water  to  his  feet,  and  wine  to  cool  his  throat; 


ii4  The  Short  Story 

and  "  Hell,  hell,  hell,  and  its  flames,"  was  aye  the  word 
in  his  mouth.  They  brought  him  water,  and  when  they 
plunged  his  swoln  feet  into  the  tub,  he  cried  out  it  was 
burning;  and  folks  say  that  it  did  bubble  and  sparkle 
5  like  a  seething  cauldron.  He  flung  the  cup  at  Dougal's 
head  and  said  he  had  given  him  blood  instead  of  Burgundy; 
and,  sure  aneugh,  the  lass  washed  clotted  blood  aff  the 
carpet  the  neist  day.  The  jackanape  they  caa'd  Major 
Weir,  it  jibbered  and  cried  as  if  it  was  mocking  its  mas- 

10  ter.  My  gudesire's  head  was  like  to  turn ;  he  forgot 
baith  siller  and  receipt,  and  downstairs  he  banged ;  but, 
as  he  ran,  the  shrieks  came  fainter  and  fainter;  there  was 
a  deep-drawn  shivering  groan,  and  word  gaed  through 
the  castle  that  the  laird  was  dead. 

15  Weel,  away  came  my  gudesire  wi'  his  finger  in  his 
mouth,  and  his  best  hope  was  that  Dougal  had  seen  the 
money-bag  and  heard  the  laird  speak  of  writing  the 
receipt.  The  young  laird,  now  Sir  John,  came  from  Edin- 
burgh to  see  things  put  to  rights.  Sir  John  and  his  father 

20  never  'greed  weel.  Sir  John  had  been  bred  an  advocate, 
and  afterward  sat  in  the  last  Scots  Parliament  and  voted 
for  the  Union,  having  gotten,  it  was  thought,  a  rug  of 
the  compensations — if  his  father  could  have  come  out 
of  his  grave  he  would  have  brained  him  for  it  on  his  awn 

25  hearthstane.  Some  thought  it  was  easier  counting  with 
the  auld  rough  knight  than  the  fair-spoken  young  ane — 
but  mair  of  that  anon. 

Dougal    MacCallum,    poor    body,    neither    grat    nor 
graned,  but  gaed  about  the  house  looking  like  a  corpse, 

30  but  directing,  as  was  his  duty,  a'  the  order  of  the  grand 
funeral.  Now  Dougal  looked  aye  waur  and  waur  when 
night  was  coming,  and  was  aye  the  last  to  gang  to  his 
bed,  whilk  was  in  a  little  round  just  opposite  the  chamber 
of  dais,  whilk  his  master  occupied  while  he  was  living, 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  115 

and  where  he  now  lay  in  state,  as  they  caa'd  it,  weeladay! 
The  night  before  the  funeral  Dougal  could  keep  his  awn 
counsel  nae  longer;  he  came  doun  wi'  his  proud  spirit,  and 
fairly  asked  auld  Hutcheon  to  sit  in  his  room  with  him 
for  an  hour.  When  they  were  in  the  round,  Dougal  took  5 
a  tass  of  brandy  to  himsell,  and  gave  Another  to  Hutcheon, 
and  wished  him  all  health  and  lang  life,  and  said  that, 
for  himsell,  he  wasna  lang  for  this  world ;  for  that  every 
night  since  Sir  Robert's  death  his  silver  call  had  sounded 
from  the  state  chamber  just  as  it  used  to  do  at  nights  in  10 
his  lifetime  to  call  Dougal  to  help  to  turn  him  in  his 
bed.  Dougal  said  that,  being  alone  with  the  dead  on  that 
floor  of  the  tower  (for  naebody  cared  to  wake  Sir  Robert 
Redgauntlet  like  another  corpse),  he  had  never  daured 
to  answer  the  call,  but  that  now  his  conscience  checked  15 
him  for  neglecting  his  duty;  for,  "though  death  breaks 
service,"  said  MacCallum,  "  it  shall  never  weak  my  serv- 
ice to  Sir  Robert;  and  I  will  answer  his  next  whistle, 
so  be  you  will  stand  by  me,  Hutcheon." 

Hutcheon  had  nae  will  to  the  wark,  but  he  had  stood  20 
by  Dougal  in  battle  and  broil,  and  he  wad  not  fail  him  at 
this  pinch ;  so  doun  the  carles  sat  ower  a  stoup  of  brandy, 
and  Hutcheon,  who  was  something  of  a  clerk,  would  have 
read   a  chapter  of  the   Bible;   but   Dougal   would   hear 
naething  but  a  blaud  of  Davie  Lindsay,  whilk  was  the  25 
waur  preparation. 

When  midnight  came,  and  the  house  was  quiet  as  the 
grave,  sure  enough  the  silver  whistle  sounded  as  sharp 
and  shrill  as  if  Sir  Robert  was  blowing  it;  and  up  got  the 
twa  auld  serving-men,  and  tottered  into  the  room  where  30 
the  dead  man  lay,  Hutcheon  saw  aneugh  at  the  first 
glance ;  for  there  were  torches  in  the  room,  which  showed 
him  the  foul  fiendj  in  his  ain  shape,  sitting  on  the  laird's 
coffin!  Ower  hfi  couped  as  if  he  had  been  dead.  He 


n6  The  Short  Story 

could  not  tell  how  lang  he  lay  in  a  trance  at  the  door, 
but  when  he  gathered  himsell  he  cried  on  his  neighbor, 
and  getting  nae  answer  raised  the  house,  when  Dougal 
was  found  lying  dead  within  twa  steps  of  the  bed  where 
5  his  master's  coffin  was  placed.  As  for  the  whistle,  it  was 
gane  anes  and  aye;  but  mony  a  time  was  it  heard  at  the 
top  of  the  house  on  the  bartizan,  and  amang  the  auld 
chimneys  and  turrets  where  the  howlets  have  their  nests. 
Sir  John  hushed  the  matter  up,  and  the  funeral  passed 

10  over  without  mair  bogie  wark. 

But  when  a'  was  ower,  and  the  laird  was  beginning  to 
settle  his  affairs,  every  tenant  was  called  up  for  his  ar- 
rears, and  my  gudesire  for  the  full  sum  that  stood  against 
him  in  the'  rental-book.  Weel,  away  he  trots  to  the  castle 

15  to  tell  his  story,  and  there  he  is  introduced  to  Sir  John, 
sitting  in  his  father's  chair,  in  deep  mourning,  with  weep- 
ers and  hanging  cravat,  and  a  small  walking-rapier  by  his 
side,  instead  of  the  auld  broadsword  that  had  a  hundred- 
weight of  steel  about  it,  what  with  blade,  chape,  and 

20  basket-hilt.  I  have  heard  their  communings  so  often  tauld 
ower  that  I  almost  think  I  was  there  mysell,  though  I 
couldna  be  born  at  the  time.  [In  fact,  Alan,  my  com- 
panion, mimicked,  with  a  good  deal  of  humor,  the  flat- 
tering, conciliating  tone  of  the  tenant's  address  and  the 

25  hypocritical  melancholy  of  the  laird's  reply.  His  grand- 
father, he  said,  had,  while  he  spoke,  his  eye  fixed  on  the 
rental-book,  as  if  it  were  a  mastiff-dog  that  he  was  afraid 
would  spring  up  and  bite  him.] 

"  I  wuss  ye  joy,  sir,  of  the  head  seat  and  the  white 

30  loaf  and  the  brid  lairdship.  Your  father  was  a  kind  man 
to  freends  and  followers;  muckle  grace  to  you,  Sir  John, 
to  fill  his  shoon — his  boots,  I  suld  say,  for  he  seldom  wore 
shoon,  unless  it  were  muils  when  he  had  the  gout." 

"  Ay,  Steenie,"  quoth  the  laird,  sighing  deeply,  and 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  117 

putting  his  napkin  to  his  een,  "  his  was  a  sudden  call, 
and  he  will  be  missed  in  the  country;  no  time  to  set  his 
house  in  order — weel  prepared  Godward,  no  doubt,  which 
is  the  root  of  the  matter;  but  he  left  us  behind  a  tangled 
hesp  to  wind,  Steenie.  Hem!  hem!  We  maun  go  to  5 
business,  Steenie;  much  to  do,  and  little  time  to  do 
it  in." 

Here  he  opened  the  fatal  volume.  I  have  heard  of  a 
thing  they  call  Doomsday-book — I  am  clear  it  has  been  a 
rental  of  back-ganging  tenants.  10 

"  Stephen,"  said  Sir  John,  still  in  the  same  soft,  sleekit 
tone  of  voice — "  Stephen  Stevenson,  or  Steenson,  ye  are 
down  here  for  a  year's  rent  behind  the  hand — due  at  last 
term." 

Stephen.  Please  your  honor,  Sir  John,  I  paid  it  to  your  15 
father. 

Sir  John.  Ye  took  a  receipt,  then,  doubtless,  Stephen, 
and  can  produce  it? 

Stephen.  Indeed,  I  hadna  time,  an  it  like  your  honor; 
for  nae  sooner  had  I  set  doun  the  siller,  and  just  as  his  20 
honor,  Sir  Robert,  that  's  gaen,  drew  it  till  him  to  count  it 
and  write  out  the  receipt,  he  was  ta'en  wi'  the  pains  that 
removed   him. 

"  That  was  unlucky,"  said   Sir  John,  after  a  pause. 
"  But  ye  maybe  paid  it  in  the  presence  of  somebody.     I  25 
want  but  a  talis  qualis  evidence,  Stephen.     I  would  go 
ower-strictly  to  work  with  no  poor  man." 

Stephen.  Troth,  Sir  John,  there  was  naebody  in  the 
room  but  Dougal  MacCallum,  the  butler.  But,  as  your 
honor  kens,  he  has  e'en  followed  his  auld  master.  30 

"  Very  unlucky  again,  Stephen,"  said  Sir  John,  with- 
out altering  his  voice  a  single  note.  '  The  man  to  whom 
ye  paid  the  money  is  dead,  and  the  man  who  witnessed 
the  payment  is  dead  too ;  and  the  siller  which  should  have 


n8  The  Short  Story 

been  to  the  fore,  is  neither  seen  nor  heard  tell  of  in  the 
repositories.    How  am  I  to  believe  a'  this?  " 

Stephen.  I  dinna  ken,  your  honor;  but  there  is  a  bit 

memorandum  note  of  the  very  coins,  for,  God  help  me! 

5  I  had  to  borrow  out  of  twenty  purses;  and  I  am  sure 

that  ilka  man  there  set  down  will  take  his  grit  oath  for 

what  purpose  I  borrowed  the  money. 

Sir  John.  I  have  little  doubt  ye  borrowed  the  money, 
Steenie.  It  is  the  payment  that  I  want  to  have  proof  of. 
10  Stephen.  The  siller  maun  be  about  the  house,  Sir  John. 
And  since  your  honor  never  got  it,  and  his  honor  that 
was  canna  have  ta'en  it  wi'  him,  maybe  some  of  the 
family  may  hae  seen  it. 

Sir  John.  We  will  examine  the  servants,  Stephen ;  that 
15  is  but  reasonable. 

But  lackey  and  lass,  and  page  and  groom,  all  denied 
stoutly  that  they  had  even  seen  such  a  bag  of  money  as 
my  gudesire  described.  What  was  waur,  he  had  unluckily 
not  mentioned  to  any  living  soul  of  them  his  purpose  of 
20  paying  his  rent.  Ae  quean  had  noticed  something  under 
his  arm,  but  she  took  it  for  the  pipes. 

Sir  John  Redgauntlet  ordered  the  servants  out  of  the 
room  and  then  said  to  my  gudesire:  "Now,  Steenie,  ye 
see  ye  have  fair  play;  and,  as  I  have  little  doubt  ye  ken 
25  better  where  to  find  the  siller  than  ony  other  body,  I  beg 
in  fair  terms,  and  for  your  own  sake,  that  you  will  end 
this  fasherie ;  for,  Stephen,  ye  maun  pay  or  flit." 

"  The  Lord  forgie  your  opinion,"  said  Stephen,  driven 
almost  to  his  wit's  end — "  I  am  an  honest  man." 
30  "So  am  I,  Stephen,"  said  his  honor;  "and  so  are  all 
the  folks  in  this  house,  I  hope.  But  if  there  be  a  knave 
among  us,  it  must  be  he  that  tells  the  story  he  cannot 
prove."  He  paused,  and  then  added,  mair  sternly:  "  If 
I  understand  your  trick,  sir,  you  want  to  take  advantage 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  119 

of  some  malicious  reports  concerning  things  in  this  family, 
and  particularly  respecting  my  father's  sudden  death, 
thereby  to  cheat  me  out  of  the  money,  and  perhaps  take 
away  my  character  by  insinuating  that  I  have  received 
the  rent  I  am  demanding.  Where  do  you  suppose  this  5 
money  to  be?  I  insist  upon  knowing." 

My  gudesire  saw  everything  look  so  muckle  against 
him  that  he  grew  nearly  desperate.  However,  he  shifted 
from  one  foot  to  another,  looked  to  every  corner  of  the 
room,  and  made  no  answer.  10 

"  Speak  out,  sirrah,"  said  the  laird,  assuming  a  look 
of  his  father's,  a  very  particular  ane,  which  he  had  when 
he  was  angry — it  seemed  as  if  the  wrinkles  of  his  frown 
made  that  selfsame  fearful  shape  of  a  horse's  shoe  in  the 
middle  of  his  brow ;  "  speak  out,  sir !  I  will  know  your  i$ 
thoughts ;  do  you  suppose  that  I  have  this  money  ?  " 

"  Far  be  it  frae  me  to  say  so,"  said  Stephen. 

"  Do  you  charge  any  of  my  people  with  having  taken 
it?" 

"  I  wad  be  laith  to  charge  them  that  may  be  inno-  20 
cent,"  said  my  gudesire;  "  and  if  there  be  any  one  that  is 
guilty,  I  have  nae  proof." 

"  Somewhere  the  money  must  be,  if  there  is  a  word  of 
truth  in  your  story,"  said  Sir  John ;  "  I  ask  where  you 
think  it  is — and  demand  a  correct  answer !  "  25 

"  In  hell,  if  you  will  have  my  thoughts  of  it,"  said 
my  gudesire,  driven  to  extremity — "  in  hell !  with  your 
father,  his  jackanape,  and  his  silver  whistle." 

Down  the  stairs  he  ran  (for  the  parlor  was  nae  place 
for  him  after  such  a  word)  and  he  heard  the  laird  swear-  30 
ing  blood  and  wounds  behind  him,  as  fast  as  ever  did  Sir 
Robert,  and  roaring  for  the  bailie  and  the  baron-officer. 

Away  rode  my  gudesire  to  his  chief  creditor  (him 
hey  caa'd  Laurie  Lapraik),  to  try  if  he  could  make  ony- 


I2O  The  Short  Story 

thing  out  of  him ;  but  when  he  tauld  his  story,  he  got  but 
the  worst  word  in  his  wame — thief,  beggar,  and  dyvour 
were  the  saftest  terms;  and  to  the  boot  of  these  hard 
terms,  Laurie  brought  up  the  auld  story  of  dipping  his 
5  hand  in  the  blood  of  God's  saunts,  just  as  if  a  tenant 
could  have  helped  riding  with  the  laird,  and  that  a  laird 
like  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet.  My  gudesire  was,  by  this 
time,  far  beyond  the  bounds  of  patience,  and,  while  he 
and  Laurie  were  at  deil  speed  the  liars,  he  was  wanchancie 

10  aneugh  to  abuse  Lapraik's  doctrine  as  weel  as  the  man, 
and  said  things  that  garr'd  folks'  flesh  grue  that  heard 
them — he  wasna  just  himsell,  and  he  had  lived  wi'  a  wild 
set  in  his  day. 

At  last  they  parted,  and  my  gudesire  was  to  ride  hame 

15  through  the  wood  of  Pitmurkie,  that  is  a'  fou  of  black 
firs,  as  they  say.  I  ken  the  wood,  but  the  firs  may  be  black 
or  white  for  what  I  can  tell.  At  the  entry  of  the  wood 
there  is  a  wild  common,  and  on  the  edge  of  the  common  a 
little  lonely  change-house,  that  was  keepit  then  by  an 

20  hostler  wife — they  suld  hae  caa'd  her  Tibbie  Faw — and 
there  puir  Steenie  cried  for  a  mutchkin  of  brandy,  for  he 
had  had  no  refreshment  the  haill  day.  Tibbie  was  earnest 
wi1  him  to  take  a  bite  of  meat,  but  he  couldna  think  o' 
't,  nor  would  he  take  his  foot  out  of  the  stirrup,  and  took 

25  off  the  brandy  wholely  at  twa  draughts,  and  named  a 
toast  at  each.  The  first  was,  the  memory  of  Sir  Robert 
Redgauntlet,  and  may  he  never  lie  quiet  in  his  grave 
"till  he  had  righted  his  poor  bond-tenant ;  and  the  second 
was,  a  health  to  Man's  Enemy,  if  he  would  but  get  him 

30  back  the  pock  of  siller,  or  tell  him  what  came  o'  't,  for 
he  saw  the  haill  world  was  like  to  regard  him  as  a  thief 
and  a  cheat,  and  he  took  that  waur  than  even  the  ruin  of 
his  house  and  hauld. 

On  he  rode,  little  caring  where.     It  was  a  dark  night 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  121 

turned,  and  the  trees  made  it  yet  darker,  and  he  let  the 
beast  take  its  ain  road  through  the  wood;  when  all  of  a 
sudden,  from  tired  and  wearied  that  it  was  before,  the 
nag  began  to  spring  and  flee  and  stend,  that  my  gudesire 
could  hardly  keep  the  saddle.  Upon  the  whilk,  a  horse-  5 
man,  suddenly  riding  up  beside  him,  said:  'That's  a 
mettle  beast  of  yours,  f reend ;  will  you  sell  him  ?  "  So 
saying,  he  touched  the  horse's  neck  with  his  riding-wand, 
and  it  fell  into  its  auld  heigh-ho  of  a  stumbling  trot. 
"  But  his  spunk  's  soon  out  of  him,  I  think,"  continued  10 
the  stranger,  "  and  that  is  like  mony  a  man's  courage, 
that  thinks  he  wad  do  great  things." 

My  gudesire  scarce  listened  to  this,  but  spurred  his 
horse,  with :  "  Gude-e'en  to  you,  f  reend." 

But  it  's  like  the  stranger  was  ane  that  doesna  lightly  15 
yield   his  point ;  for,   ride  as   Steenie   liked,   he  was   aye 
beside  him  at  the  selfsame  pace.     At  last  my  gudesire, 
Steenie  Steenson,  grew  half  angry,  and,  to  say  the  truth, 
half  feard. 

"  What  is  it  that  you  want  with  me,   freend  ?  "  he  20 
said.     "  If  ye  be  a  robber,  I  have  nae  money ;  if  ye  be 
a  leal  man,  wanting  company,  I  have  nae  heart  to  mirth 
or  speaking;  and  if  ye  want  to  ken  the  road,  I  scarce 
ken  it  mysell." 

"  If  you  will  tell  me  your  grief,"  said  the  stranger,  25 
"  I  am  one  that,  though  I  have  been  sair  miscaa'd  in  the 
world,  am  the  only  hand  for  helping  my  freends." 

So  my  gudesire,  to  ease  his  ain  heart,  mair  than 
from  any  hope  of  help,  told  him  the  story  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  30 

"  It's  a  hard  pinch,"  said  the  stranger;  "  but  I  think 
I  can  help  you." 

"  If  you  could  lend  the  money,  sir,  and  take  a  lang 
day — I  ken  nae  other  help  on  earth,"  said  my  gudesire. 


122  The  Short  Story 

"  But  there  may  be  some  under  the  earth,"  said  the 
stranger.  "  Come,  I'll  be  frank  wi'  you ;  I  could  lend 
you  the  money  on  bond,  but  you  would  maybe  scruple  my 
terms.  Now  I  can  tell  you  that  your  auld  laird  is  dis- 
5  turbed  in  his  grave  by  your  curses  and  the  wailing  of 
your  family,  and  if  ye  daur  venture  to  go  to  see  him,  he 
will  give  you  the  receipt." 

My  gudesire's  hair  stood  on  end  at  this  proposal,  but 
he   thought    his   companion    might    be   some    humorsome 

10  chield  that  was  trying  to  frighten  him,  and  might  end 
with  lending  him  the  money.  Besides  he  was  bauld  wi' 
brandy,  and  desperate  wi'  distress;  and  he  said  he  had 
courage  to  go  to  the  gate  of  hell,  and  a  step  farther,  for 
that  receipt.  The  stranger  laughed. 

15  Weel,  they  rode  on  through  the  thickest  of  the  wood, 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  horse  stopped  at  the  door  of 
a  great  house;  and,  but  that  he  knew  the  place  was  ten 
miles  off,  my  father  would  have  thought  he  was  at  Red- 
gauntlet  Castle.  They  rode  into  the  outer  courtyard, 

20  through  the  muckle  faulding  yetts,  and  aneath  the  auld 
portcullis;  and  the  whole  front  of  the  house  was  lighted, 
and  there  were  pipes  and  fiddles,  and  as  much  dancing 
and  deray  within  as  used  to  be  at  Sir  Robert's  house  at 
Pace  and  Yule,  and  such  high  seasons.  They  lap  off,  and 

25  my  gudesire,  as  seemed  to  him,  fastened  his  horse  to 
the  very  ring  he  had  tied  him  to  that  morning  when  he 
gaed  to  wait  on  the  young  Sir  John. 

"  God !  "  said  my  gudesire,  "  if  Sir  Robert's  death  be 
but   a   dream !  " 

30  He  knocked  at  the  ha'  door  just  as  he  was  wont,  and 
his  auld  acquaintance,  Dougal  MacCallum — just  after 
his  wont,  too — came  to  open  the  door,  and  said:  "  Piper 
Steenie,  are  ye  there,  lad  ?  Sir  Robert  has  been  crying  for 
you." 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  123 

My  gudesire  was  like  a  man  in  a  dream — he  looked 
for  the  stranger,  but  he  was  gane  for  the  time.  At  last 
he  just  tried  to  say:  "  Ha!  Dougal  Driveower,  are  you 
living?  I  thought  ye  had  been  dead." 

"  Never  fash  yoursell  wi'  me,"  said  Dougal,  "  but  look  5 
to  yoursell;  and  see  ye  tak'  naething  frae  onybody  here, 
neither  meat,  drink,  or  siller,  except  the  receipt  that  is 
your  ain." 

So  saying,  he  led  the  way  out  through  halls  and 
trances  that  were  weel  kend  to  my  gudesire,  and  into  the  10 
auld  oak  parlor ;  and  there  was  as  much  singing  of  pro- 
fane sangs,  and  birling  of  red  wine,  and  blasphemy  and 
sculduddery  as  had  ever  been  in  Redgauntlet  Castle  when 
it  was  at  the  blythest. 

But  Lord  take  us  in  keeping!  what  a  set  of  ghastly  15 
revelers   there   were   that   sat   around    that   table !      My 
gudesire  kend  mony  that  had  long  before  gane  to  their 
place,   for  often  had  he  piped  to  the  most  part  in  the 
hall  of  Redgauntlet.     There  was  the  fierce  Middleton, 
and    the   dissolute    Rothes,    and   the   crafty    Lauderdale;  20 
and  Dalyell,  with  his  bald  head  and  a  beard  to  his  girdle; 
and  Earlshall,  with  Cameron's  blude  on  his  hand ;  and 
wild  Bonshaw,  that  tied  blessed  Mr.  Cargill's  limbs  till 
the  blude  sprung;  and  Dumbarton  Douglas,  the  twice- 
turned  traitor  baith   to  country   and   king.     There  was  25 
the   Bludy  Advocate  MacKenyie,  who,   for  his  worldly 
wit  and  wisdom,  had  been  to  the  rest  as  a  god.    And  there 
was  Claverhouse,  as  beautiful  as  when  he  lived,  with  his 
long,  dark,  curled  locks  streaming  down  over  his  laced 
buff-coat,   and   with   his   left  hand   always  on   his   right  30 
spule-blade,  to  hide  the  wound  that  the  silver  bullet  had 
made.*     He  sat  apart  from  them  all,  and  looked  at  them 

•The  personages  here  mentioned  are  most  of  them  char- 
acters of  historical  fame;  but  those  less  known  and  remem- 


124  The  Short  Story 

with  a  melancholy,  Tiaughty  countenance;  while  the  rest 
hallooed  and  sang  and  laughed,  that  the  room  rang. 
But  their  smiles  were  fearfully  contorted  from  time  to 
time;  and  their  laughter  passed  into  such  wild  sounds  as 
5  made  my  gudesire's  very  nails  grow  blue,  and  chilled  the 
marrow  in  his  banes. 

They  that  waited  at  the  table  were  just  the  wicked 
serving-men  and  troopers  that  had  done  their  work  and 
cruel  bidding  on  earth.  There  was  the  Lang  Lad  of  the 

10  Nethertown,  that  helped  to  take  Argyle ;  and  the  bishop's 
summoner,  that  they  called  the  Deil's  Rattlebag;  and  the 
wicked  guardsmen  in  their  laced  coats;  and  the  savage 
Highland  Amorites,  that  shed  blood  like  water;  and 
mony  a  proud  serving-man,  haughty  of  heart  and  bloody 

15  of  hand,  cringing  to  the  rich,  and  making  them  wickeder 
than  they  would  be;  grinding  the  poor  to  powder  when 
the  rich  had  broken  them  to  fragments.  And  mony,  mony 
mair  were  coming  and  ganging,  a'  as  busy  in  their  voca- 
tion as  if  they  had  been  alive. 

20  Sir  Robert  Redgauntlet,  in  the  midst  of  a'  this  fear- 
ful riot,  cried,  wi'  a  voice  like  thunder,  on  Steenie  Piper 
to  come  to  the  board-head  where  he  was  sitting,  his  legs 
stretched  out  before  him,  and  swathed  up  with  flannel, 
with  his  holster  pistols  aside  him,  while  the  great  broad- 

25  sword  rested  against  his  chair,  just  as  my  gudesire  had 
seen  him  the  last  time  upon  earth;  the  very  cushion  for 
the  jackanape  was  close  to  him ;  but  the  creature  itsell  was 
not  there — it  wasna  its  hour,  it  's  likely;  for  he  heard 
them  say,  as  he  came  forward :  "  Is  not  the  major  come 

30  bered  may  be  found  in  the  tract  entitled  The  Judgment  and 
Justice  of  God  Exemplified;  or,  A  Brief  Historical  Account 
of  some  of  the  Wicked  Lives  and  Miserable  Deaths  of  some 
of  the  most  Remarkable  Apostates  and  Bloody  Persecutors, 
from  the  Reformation  till  after  the  Revolution. 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  125 

yet?"  And  another  answered:  "The  jackanape  will  be 
here  betimes  the  morn."  And  when  my  gudesire  came 
forward,  Sir  Robert,  or  his  ghaist,  or  the  deevil  in  his 
likeness,  said:  "Weel,  piper,  hae  ye  settled  wi'  my  son 
for  the  year's  rent  ?  "  5 

With  much  ado  my  father  gat  breath  to  say  that  Sir 
John  would  not  settle  without  his  honor's  receipt. 

"  Ye  shall  hae  that  for  a  tune  of  the  pipes,  Steenie," 
said  the  appearance  of  Sir  Robert — "  play  us  up  Weel 
Hoddled,  Luckie."  10 

Now  this  was  a  tune  my  gudesire  learned  frae  a  war- 
lock, that  heard  it  when  they  were  worshiping  Satan  at 
their  meetings;  and  my  gudesire  had  sometimes  played  it 
at  the  ranting  suppers  in  Redgauntlet  Castle,  but  never 
very  willingly;  and  now  he  grew  cauld  at  the  very  15 
name  of  it,  and  said,  for  excuse,  he  hadna  his  pipes  wi' 
him. 

"  MacCallum,  ye  limb  of  Beelzebub,"  said  the  fearfu' 
Sir  Robert,  "  bring  Steenie  the  pipes  that  I  am  keeping 
for  him!  "  20 

MacCallum  brought  a  pair  of  pipes  might  have  served 
the  piper  of  Donald  of  the  Isles.  But  he  gave  my  gude- 
sire a  nudge  as  he  offered  them ;  and  looking  secretly  and 
closely,  Steenie  saw  that  the  chanter  was  of  steel,  and 
heated  to  a  white  heat;  so  he  had  fair  warning  not  to  25 
trust  his  fingers  with  it.  So  he  excused  himsell  again, 
and  said  he  was  faint  and  frightened,  and  had  not  wind 
aneugh  to  fill  the  bag. 

'  Then   ye   maun   eat   and    drink,    Steenie,"   said    the 
figure;  "for  we  do  little  else  here;  and  it  's  ill  speak-  30 
ing  between  a  fou  man  and  a  fasting."     Now  these  were 
the  very  words  that  the  bloody  Earl  of  Douglas  said  to 
keep  the  king's  messenger  in  hand  while  he  cut  the  head 


126  The  Short  Story 

off  MacLellan  of  Bombie,  at  the  Threave  Castle;*  and 
that  put  Steenie  mair  and  mair  on  his  guard.  So  he 
spoke  up  like  a  man,  and  said  he  came  neither  to  eat  nor 
drink,  nor  make  minstrelsy;  but  simply  for  his  ain — 
5  to  ken  what  was  come  o'  the  money  he  had  paid,  and  to  get 
a  discharge  for  it;  and  he  was  so  stout-hearted  by  this 
time  that  he  charged  Sir  Robert  for  conscience's  sake 
(he  had  no  power  to  say  the  holy  name),  and  as  he  hoped 
for  peace  and  rest,  to  spread  no  snares  for  him,  but  just 

10  to  give  him  his  ain. 

The  appearance  gnashed  its  teeth  and  laughed,  but  it 
took  from  a  large  pocket-book  the  receipt,  and  handed  it 
to  Steenie.  "  There  is  your  receipt,  ye  pitiful  cur ;  and 
for  the  money,  my  dog-whelp  of  a  son  may  go  look  for  it 

15  in  the  Cat's  Cradle." 

My  gudesire  uttered  mony  thanks,  and  was  about  to 
retire,  when  Sir  Robert  roared  aloud:  "Stop,  though, 
thou  sack-doudling  son  of  a  — !  I  am  not  done  with  thee. 
HERE  we  do  nothing  for  nothing;  and  you  must  return 

20  on  this  very  day  twelvemonth  to  pay  your  master  the 
homage  that  you  owe  me  for  my  protection." 

My  father's  tongue  was  loosed  of  a  suddenly,  and  he 
said  aloud:  "  I  refer  myself  to  God's  pleasure,  and  not  to 
yours." 

25  He  had  no  sooner  uttered  the  word  than  all  was  dark 
around  him;  and  he  sank  on  the  earth  with  such  a  sud- 
den shock  that  he  lost  both  breath  and  sense. 

How  lang  Steenie  lay  there  he  could  not  tell;  but 
when  he  came  to  himself  he  was  lying  in  the  auld  kirk- 

30  yard  of  Redgauntlet  parochine,  just  at  the  door  of  the 
family  aisle,  and  the  scutcheon  of  the  auld  knight,  Sir 
Robert,  hanging  over  his  head.  There  was  a  deep  morn- 

*  The   reader   is   referred   for   particulars   to   Pitscottie's  His- 
tory of   Scotland. 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  127 

ing  fog  on  grass  and  gravestane  around  him,  and  his 
horse  was  feeding  quietly  beside  the  minister's  twa  cows. 
Steenie  would  have  thought  the  whole  was  a  dream,  but 
he  had  the  receipt  in  his  hand  fairly  written  and  signed 
by  the  auld  laird ;  only  the  last  letters  of  his  name  were  5 
a  little  disorderly,  written  like  one  seized  with  sudden 
pain. 

Sorely  troubled  in  his  mind,  he  left  that  dreary  place, 
rode  through  the  mist  to  Redgauntlet  Castle,  and  with 
much  ado  he  got  speech  of  the  laird.  10 

"  Well,  you  dyvour  bankrupt,"  was  the  first  word, 
"  have  you  brought  me  my  rent  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  my  gudesire,  "  I  have  not;  but  I 
have  brought  your  honor  Sir  Robert's  receipt  for  it." 

"  How,  sirrah?    Sir  Robert's  receipt!    You  told  me  he  15 
had  not  given  you  one." 

"  Will  your  honor  please  to  see  if  that  bit  line  is 
right?" 

Sir  John   looked   at  every  line,   and   at  every  letter, 
with  much  attention;  and  at  last  at  the  date,  which  my  20 
gudesire  had  not  observed — "  From  my  appointed  place," 
he  read,  "  this  twenty-fifth  of  November." 

"What!  That  is  yesterday!  Villain,  thou  must  have 
gone  to  hell  for  this!  " 

"  I  got  it  from  your  honor's  father ;  whether  he  be  in  25 
heaven  or  hell,  I  know  not,"  said  Steenie. 

"  I  will  debate  you  for  a  warlock  to  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil! "  said  Sir  John.  "  I  will  send  you  to  your  master, 
the  devil,  with  the  help  of  a  tar-barrel  and  a  torch !  " 

"  I  intend  to  debate  mysell  to  the  Presbytery,"  said  30 
Steenie,  "  and  tell  them  all  I  have  seen  last  night,  whilk 
are  things  fitter  for  them  to  judge  of  than  a  borrel  man 
like  me." 

Sir  John  paused,  composed  himsell,  and  desired  to  hear 


128  The  Short  Story 

the  full  history;  and  my  gudesire  told  it  him  from  point 
to  point,  as  I  have  told  it  you — neither  more  nor  less. 

Sir  John  was  silent  again  for  a  long  time,  and  at  last 
he  said,  very  composedly:  "  Steenie,  this  story  of  yours 
5  concerns  the  honor  of  many  a  noble  family  besides  mine; 
and  if  it  be  a  leasing-making,  to  keep  yourself  out  of  my 
danger,  the  least  you  can  expect  is  to  have  a  red-hot  iron 
driven  through  your  tongue,  and  that  will  be  as  bad  as 
scaulding  your  fingers  wi'  a  red-hot  chanter.  But  yet  it 

lomay  be  true,  Steenie;  and  if  the  money  cast  up,  I  shall  not 
know  what  to  think  of  it.  But  where  shall  we  find  the 
Cat's  Cradle  ?  There  are  cats  enough  about  the  old  house, 
but  I  think  they  kitten  without  the  ceremony  of  bed 
or  cradle." 

15  "We  were  best  ask  Hutcheon,"  said  my  gudesire; 
"  he  kens  a'  the  odd  corners  about  as  weel  as — another 
serving-man  that  is  now  gane,  and  that  I  wad  not  like  to 
name." 

Aweel,  Hutcheon,  when  he  was  asked,  told  them  that 

20  a  ruinous  turret  lang  disused,  next  the  clock-house,  only 
accessible  by  a  ladder,  for  the  opening  was  on  the  out- 
side, above  the  battlements,  was  called  of  old  the  Cat's 
Cradle. 

"  There  will  I  go  immediately,"  said  Sir  John ;  and 

25  he  took — with  what  purpose  Heaven  kens — one  of  his 
father's  pistols  from  the  hall-table,  where  they  had  lain 
since  the  night  he  died,  and  hastened  to  the  battle- 
ments. 

It  was  a  dangerous  place  to  climb,  for  the  ladder  was 

30  auld  and  frail,  and  wanted  ane  or  twa  rounds.  How- 
ever, up  got  Sir  John,  and  entered  at  the  turret  door, 
where  his  body  stopped  the  only  little  light  that  was  in 
the  bit  turret.  Something  flees  at  him  wi'  a  vengeance, 
maist  dang  him  back  ower — bang!  gaed  the  knight's 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  129 

pistol,  and  Hutcheon,  that  held  the  ladder,  and  my  gude- 
sire,  that  stood  beside  him,  hears  a  loud  skelloch.  A  min- 
ute after,  Sir  John  flings  the  body  of  the  jackanape  down 
to  them,  and  cries  that  the  »iller  is  fund,  and  that  they 
should  come  up  and  help  him.  And  there  was  the  bag  5 
of  siller  sure  aneugh,  and  mony  orra  thing  besides,  that 
had  been  missing  for  mony  a  day.  And  Sir  John,  when 
he  had  riped  the  turret  weel,  led  my  gudesire  into  the 
dining-parlor,  and  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  spoke  kindly 
to  him,  and  said  he  was  sorry  he  should  have  doubted  his  10 
word,  and  that  he  would  hereafter  be  a  good  master  to 
him,  to  make  amends. 

"  And  now,  Steenie,"  said  Sir  John,  "  although  this 
vision  of  yours  tends,  on  the  whole,  to  my  father's  credit 
as  an  honest  man,  that  he  should,  even  after  his  death,  15 
desire  to  see  justice  done  to  a  poor  man  like  you,  yet  you 
are  sensible  that  ill-dispositioned  men  might  make  bad  con- 
structions upon  it  concerning  his  soul's  health.  So,  I 
think,  we  had  better  lay  the  haill  dirdum  on  that  ill- 
deedie  creature,  Major  Weir,  and  say  naething  about  20 
your  dream  in  the  wood  of  Pitmurkie.  You  had  taen 
ower-muckle  brandy  to  be  very  certain  about  onything ; 
and,  Steenie,  this  receipt  " — his  hand  shook  while  he  held 
it  out — "  it  's  but  a  queer  kind  of  document,  and  we  will 
do  best,  I  think,  to  put  it  qtiiwtly  in  the  fire."  25 

"  Od,  but  for  as  queer  as  it  is,  it  's  a'  the  voucher  I 
have  for  my  rent,"  said  my  gudesire,  who  was  afraid, 
it  may  be,  of  losing  the  benefit  of  Sir  Robert's  discharge. 

"  I  will  bear  the  contents  to  your  credit  in  the  rental- 
book,  and  give  you  a  discharge  under  my  own  hand,"  said  30 
Sir  John,  "  and  that  on  the  spot.     And,  Steenie,  if  you 
can  hold  your  tongue  about  this  matter,  you  shall  sit,  from 
this  time  downward,  at  an  easier  rent." 

"  Mony  thanks  to  your  honor,"  said  Steenie,  who  saw 


130  The  Short  Story 

easily  in  what  corner  the  wind  was;  "  doubtless  I  will  be 
conformable  to  all  your  honor's  commands;  only  I  would 
willingly  speak  wi'  some  powerful  minister  on  the  sub- 
ject, for  I  do  not  like  the  sort  of  soumons  of  appoint- 

5  ment  whilk  your  honor's  father " 

"  Do  not  call  the  phantom  my  father !  "  said  Sir  John, 
interrupting  him. 

"  Weel  then,  the  thing  that  was  so  like  him,"  said 
my  gudesire;  "he  spoke  of  my  coming  back  to  see  him 

10  this  time  twelvemonth,  and  it  's  a  weight  on  my  con- 
science." 

"  Aweel  then,"  said  Sir  John,  "  if  you  be  so  much 
distressed  in  mind,  you  may  speak  to  our  minister  of  the 
parish;  he  is  a  douce  man,  regards  the  honor  of  our 

15  family,  and  the  mair  that  he  may  look  for  some  patronage 
from  me." 

Wi'  that,  my  father  readily  agreed  that  the  receipt 
should  be  burned ;  and  the  laird  threw  it  into  the  chimney 
with  his  ain  hand.  Burn  it  would  not  for  them,  though ; 

20  but  away  it  flew  up  the  lum,  wi'  a  lang  train  of  sparks 
at  its  tail,  and  a  hissing  noise  like  a  squib. 

My  gudesire  gaed  down  to  the  manse,  and  the  min- 
ister, when  he  had  heard  the  story,  said  it  was  his  real 
opinion  that,  though  my  gudesire  had  gane  very  far  in 

25  tampering  with  dangerous  matters,  yet  as  he  had  refused 
the  devil's  arles  (for  such  was  the  offer  of  meat  and 
drink),  and  had  refused  to  do  homage  by  piping  at  his 
bidding,  he  hoped  that,  if  he  held  a  circumspect  walk 
hereafter,  Satan  could  take  little  advantage  by  what  was 

30  come  and  gane.  And,  indeed,  my  gudesire,  of  his  ain 
accord,  lang  forswore  baith  the  pipes  and  the  brandy — it 
was  not  even  till  the  year  was  out,  and  the  fatal  day  past, 
that  he  would  so  much  as  take  the  riddle  or  drink  usque- 
baugh or  tippenny. 


Wandering  Willie's  Tale  131 

Sir  John  made  up  his  story  about  the  jackanape  as 
he  liked  himsell ;  and  some  believe  till  this  day  there  was 
no  more  in  the  matter  than  the  filching  nature  of  the 
brute.  Indeed,  ye'll  no  hinder  some  to  threap,  that  it 
was  nane  o'  the  auld  Enemy  that  Dougal  and  Hutcheon  5 
saw  in  the  laird's  room,  but  only  that  wanchancie  creature 
the  major,  capering  on  the  coffin;  and  that,  as  to  the 
blawing  on  the  laird's  whistle  that  was  heard  after  he 
was  dead,  the  filthy  brute  could  do  that  as  weel  as  the 
laird  himsell,  if  not  better.  But  Heaven  kens  the  truth,  10 
whilk  first  came  out  by  the  minister's  wife,  after  Sir 
John  and  her  airi  gudeman  were  baith  in  the  moulds. 
And  then  my  gudesire,  wha  was  failed  in  his  limbs,  but 
not  in  his  judgment  or  memory — at  least  nothing  to 
speak  of — was  obliged  to  tell  the  real  narrative  to  his  15 
freends,  for  the  credit  of  his  good  name.  He  might 
else  have  been  charged  for  a  warlock.* 

The  shades  of  evening  were  growing  thicker  around 
us  as  my  conductor  finished  his  long  narrative  with  this 
moral :     "  You  see,  birkie,  it  is  nae  chancy  thing  to  tak'  a  20 
stranger  traveler  for  a  guide  when  you  are  in  an  uncouth 
land." 

"  I    should    not   have   made    that    inference,"    said    I. 
"  Your  grandfather's  adventure  was  fortunate  for  him- 
self, whom  it  saved  from  ruin  and  distress;  and  fortu-  25 
nate  for  his  landlord." 


•I  have  heard  in  my  youth  some  such  wild  tale  as  that 
placed  in  the  mouth  of  the  blind  fiddler,  of  which,  I  think, 
the  hero  was  Sir  Robert  Grierson,  of  Lagg,  the  famous  per- 
secutor. But  the  belief  was  general  throughout  Scotland  that  30 
the  excessive  lamentation  over  the  loss  of  friends  disturbed 
the  repose  of  the  dead,  and  broke  even  the  rest  of  the  grave. 
[Here,  and  on  p.  123,  only  the  essential  parts  of  the  author's 
notes  are  reprinted.] 


132  The  Short  Story 

"  Ay,  but  they  had  baith  to  sup  the  sauce  o'  't  sooner 
or  later,"  said  Wandering  Willie ;  "  what  was  f  risted 
wasna  forgiven.  Sir  John  died  before  he  was  much  over 
threescore;  and  it  was  just  like  of  a  moment's  illness. 
5  And  for  my  gudesire,  though  he  departed  in  fullness  of 
life,  yet  there  was  my  father,  a  yauld  man  of  forty-five, 
fell  down  betwixt  the  stilts  of  his  plough,  and  raise  never 
again,  and  left  nae  bairn  but  me,  a  puir,  sightless,  father- 
less, motherless  creature,  could  neither  work  nor  want. 

10  Things  gaed  weel  aneugh  at  first;  for  Sir  Regwald  Red- 
gauntlet,  the  only  son  of  Sir  John  and  the  oye  of  auld 
Sir  Robert,  and,  wae  's  me!  the  last  of  the  honorable 
house,  took  the  farm  aff  our  hands,  and  brought  me  into 
his  household  to  have  care  of  me.  My  head  never  settled 

15  since  I  lost  him ;  and  if  I  say  another  word  about  it,  deil 
a  bar  will  I  have  the  heart  to  play  the  night.  Look  out, 
my  gentle  chap,"  he  resumed,  in  a  different  tone;  "ye 
should  see  the  lights  at  Brokenburn  Glen  by  this  time." 


THE   MASQUE   OF  THE   RED   DEATH* 

BY  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 

THE  "  Red  Death  "  had  long  devastated  the  country. 
No  pestilence  had  ever  been  so  fatal,  or  so  hideous. 
Blood  was  its  Avatar  and  its  seal — the  redness  and  the 
horror  of  blood.  There  were  sharp  pains,  and  sudden 
dizziness,  and  then  profuse  bleeding  at  the  pores,  with  5 
dissolution.  The  scarlet  stains  upon  the  body,  and  espe- 
cially upon  the  face  of  the  victim,  were  the  pest  ban  which 
shut  him  out  from  the  aid  and  from  the  sympathy  of 
his  fellow-men.  And  the  whole  seizure,  progress,  and 
termination  of  the  disease  were  the  incidents  of  half  an  10 
hour. 

But  the  Prince  Prospero  was  happy  and  dauntless  and 
sagacious.  When  his  dominions  were  half  depopulated, 
he  summoned  to  his  presence  a  thousand  hale  and  light- 
hearted  friends  from  among  the  knights  and  dames  of  his  15 
court,  and  with  these  retired  to  the  deep  seclusion  of  one 
of  his  castellated  abbeys.  This  was  an  extensive  and  mag- 
nificent structure,  the  creation  of  the  prince's  own  ec- 
centric yet  august  taste.  A  strong  and  lofty  wall  girdled 
it  in.  This  wall  had  gates  of  iron.  The  courtiers,  hav-  20 
ing  entered,  brought  furnaces  and  massy  hammers  and 
welded  the  bolts.  They  resolved  to  leave  means  neither 

•EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  (1804-1849),  author  of  this  narrative,  has 
been  the  most  eminent  American  writer  of  poetry  and  short 
stories.  This  story  was  first  published  in  1842.  See  also  pp. 
26-39,  43-50,  54,  56. 

133 


134  The  Short  Story 

of  ingress  nor  egress  to  the  sudden  impulses  of  despair  or 
of  frenzy  from  within.  The  abbey  was  amply  pro- 
visioned. With  such  precautions  the  courtiers  might  bid 
defiance  to  contagion.  The  external  world  could  take 
5  care  of  itself.  In  the  meantime  it  was  folly  to  grieve, 
or  to  think.  The  prince  had  provided  all  the  appliances 
of  pleasure.  There  were  buffoons,  there  were  improv- 
visatori,  there  were  ballet-dancers,  there  were  musicians, 
there  was  Beauty,  there  was  wine.  All  these  and  security 

10  were  within.    Without  was  the  "  Red  Death." 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  fifth  or  sixth  month 
of  his  seclusion,  and  while  the  pestilence  raged  most 
furiously  abroad,  that  the  Prince  Prospero  entertained 
his  thousand  friends  at  a  masked  ball  of  the  most  unusual 

15  magnificence. 

It  was  a  voluptuous  scene,  that  masquerade.  But  first 
let  me  tell  of  the  rooms  in  which  it  was  held.  There 
were  seven — an  imperial  suite.  In  many  palaces,  how- 
ever, such  suites  form  a  long  and  straight  vista,  while 

20  the  folding  doors  slide  back  nearly  to  the  walls  on  either 
hand,  so  that  the  view  of  the  whole  extent  is  scarcely 
impeded.  Here  the  case  was  very  different;  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  the  duke's  love  of  the  bizarre. 
The  apartments  were  so  irregularly  disposed  that  the 

25  vision  embraced  but  little  more  than  one  at  a  time.  There 
was  a  sharp  turn  at  every  twenty  or  thirty  yards,  and  at 
each  turn  a  novel  effect.  To  the  right  and  left,  in  the  mid- 
dle of  each  wall,  a  tall  and  narrow  Gothic  window  looked 
out  upon  a  closed  corridor  which  pursued  the  windings  of 

30  the  suite.  These  windows  were  of  stained  glass  whose 
color  varied  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing  hue  of 
the  decorations  of  the  chamber  into  which  it  opened. 
That  at  the  eastern  extremity  was  hung,  for  example,  in 
blue — and  vividly  blue  were  its  windows.  The  second 


The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death         135 

chamber  was  purple  in  its  ornaments  and  tapestries,  and 
here  the  panes  were  purple.  The  third  was  green  through- 
out, and  so  were  the  casements.  The  fourth  was  fur- 
nished and  lighted  with  orange — the  fifth  with  white — the 
sixth  with  violet.  The  seventh  apartment  was  closely  5 
shrouded  in  black  velvet  tapestries  that  hung  all  over  the 
ceiling  and  down  the  walls,  falling  in  heavy  folds  upon 
a  carpet  of  the  same  material  and  hue.  But  in  this 
chamber  only,  the  color  of  the  windows  failed  to  cor- 
respond with  the  decorations.  The  panes  here  were  10 
scarlet — a  deep  blood  color.  Now,  in  no  one  of  the 
seven  apartments  was  there  any  lamp  or  candelabrum, 
amid  the  profusion  of  golden  ornaments  that  lay  scat- 
tered to  and  fro  or  depended  from  the  roof.  There  was 
no  light  of  any  kind  emanating  from  lamp  or  candle  15 
within  the  suite  of  chambers.  But  in  the  corridors  that 
followed  the  suite,  there  stood,  opposite  to  each  win- 
dow, a  heavy  tripod,  bearing  a  brazier  of  fire,  that  pro- 
jected its  rays  through  the  tinted  glass  and  so  glaringly 
illumined  the  room.  And  thus  were  produced  a  multi-  20 
tude  of  gaudy  and  fantastic  appearances.  But  in  the 
western  or  black  chamber  the  effect  of  the  firelight  that 
streamed  upon  the  dark  hangings  through  the  blood-tinted 
panes  was  ghastly  in  the  extreme,  and  produced  so  wild 
a  look  upon  the  countenances  of  those  who  entered,  that  25 
there  were  few  of  the  company  bold  enough  to  set  foot 
within  its  precincts  at  all. 

It  was  in  this  apartment,  also,  that  there  stood  against 
the  western  wall,  a  gigantic  clock  of  ebony.  Its  pen- 
dulum swung  to  and  fro  with  a  dull,  heavy,  monotonous  30 
clang;  and  when  the  minute-hand  made  the  circuit  of  the 
face,  and  the  hour  was  to  be  stricken,  there  came  from 
the  brazen  lungs  of  the  clock  a  sound  which  was  clear 
and  loud  and  deep  and  exceedingly  musical,  but  of  so 


136  The  Short  Story 

peculiar  a  note  and  emphasis  that,  at  each  lapse  of  an  hour, 
the  musicians  of  the  orchestra  were  constrained  to  pause, 
momentarily,  in  their  performance,  to  hearken  to  the 
sound ;  and  thus  the  waltzers  perforce  ceased  their  evolu- 

5  tions;  and  there  was  a  brief  disconcert  of  the  whole  gay 
company;  and,  while  the  chimes  of  the  clock  yet  rang, 
it  was  observed  that  the  giddiest  grew  pale,  and  the  more 
aged  and  sedate  passed  their  hands  over  their  brows  as  if 
in  confused  revery  or  meditation.  But  when  the  echoes 

jo  had  fully  ceased,  a  light  laughter  at  once  pervaded  the 
assembly;  the  musicians  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled 
as  if  at  their  own  nervousness  and  folly,  and  made 
whispering  vows,  each  to  the  other,  that  the  next  chim- 
ing of  the  clock  should  produce  in  them  no  similar  emo- 

iStion;  and  then,  after  the  lapse  of  sixty  minutes  (which 
embraced  three  thousand  and  six  hundred  seconds  of  the 
Time  that  flies),  there  came  yet  another  chiming  of  the 
clock,  and  then  were  the  same  disconcert  and  tremulous- 
ness  and  meditation  as  before. 

20  But,  in  spite  of  these  things,  it  was  a  gay  and  mag- 
nificent revel.  The  tastes  of  the  duke  were  peculiar. 
He  had  a  fine  eye  for  colors  and  effects.  He  disregarded 
the  decora  of  mere  fashion.  His  plans  were  bold  and 
fiery,  and  his  conceptions  glowed  with  barbaric  luster. 

25  There  are  some  who  would  have  thought  him  mad.  His 
followers  felt  that  he  was  not.  It  was  necessary  to 
hear  and  see  and  touch  him  to  be  sure  that  he  was  not. 

He  had  directed,   in   great  part,   the  movable  embel- 
lishments of  the  seven  chambers,  upon  occasion  of  this  great 

30  fete;  and  it  was  his  own  guiding  taste  which  had  given 
the  character  to  the  masqueraders.  Be  sure  they  were  gro- 
tesque. There  were  much  glare  and  glitter  and  piquancy 
and  phantasm — much  of  what  has  been  since  seen  in 
"  Hernani."  There  were  arabesque  figures  with  unsuited 


The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death         137 

limbs  and  appointments.  There  were  delirious  fancies 
such  as  the  madman  fashions.  There  were  much  of  the 
beautiful,  much  of  the  wanton,  much  of  the  bizarre,  some- 
thing of  the  terrible,  and  not  a  little  of  that  which  might 
have  excited  disgust.  To  and  fro  in  the  seven  chambers  5 
there  stalked,  in  fact,  a  multitude  of  dreams.  And  these 
— the  dreams — writhed  in  and  about,  taking  hue  from  the 
rooms,  and  causing  the  wild  music  of  the  orchestra  to 
seem  as  the  echo  of  their  steps.  And,  anon,  there  strikes 
the  ebony  clock  which  stands  in  the  hall  of  the  velvet.  10 
And  then,  for  a  moment,  all  is  still,  and  all  is  silent 
save  the  voice  of  the  clock.  The  dreams  are  stiff-frozen 
as  they  stand.  But  the  echoes  of  the  chime  die  away — 
they  have  endured  but  an  instant — and  a  light,  half- 
subdued  laughter  floats  after  them  as  they  depart.  And  15 
now  again  the  music  swells,  and  the  dreams  live,  and 
writhe  to  and  fro  more  merrily  than  ever,  taking  hue 
from  the  many-tinted  windows  through  which  stream  the 
rays  from  the  tripods.  But  to  the  chamber  which  lies 
most  westwardly  of  the  seven  there  are  now  none  of  the  20 
maskers  who  venture;  for  the  night  is  waning  away;  and 
there  flows  a  ruddier  light  through  the  blood-colored 
panes;  and  the  blackness  of  the  sable  drapery  appalls;  and 
to  him  whose  foot  falls  upon  the  sable  carpet,  there 
comes  from  the  near  clock  of  ebony  a  muffled  peal  more  25 
solemnly  emphatic  than  any  which  reaches  their  ears  who 
indulge  in  the  more  remote  gayeties  of  the  other  apart- 
ments. 

But  these  other  apartments  were  densely  crowded, 
and  in  them  beat  feverishly  the  heart  of  life.  And  the  30 
revel  went  whirlingly  on,  until  at  length  there  com- 
menced the  sounding  of  midnight  upon  the  clock.  And 
then  the  music  ceased,  as  I  have  told ;  and  the  evolu- 
tions of  the  waltzers  were  quieted ;  and  there  was  an 


138  The  Short  Story 

uneasy  cessation  of  all  things  as  before.  But  now  there 
were  twelve  strokes  to  be  sounded  by  the  bell  of  the 
clock;  and  thus  it  happened,  perhaps,  that  more  of 
thought  crept,  with  more  of  time,  into  the  meditations  of 

5  the  thoughtful  among"  those  who  reveled.  And  thus, 
too,  it  happened,  perhaps,  that  before  the  last  echoes  of 
the  last  chime  had  utterly  sunk  into  silence,  there  were 
many  individuals  in  the  crowd  who  had  found  leisure  to 
become  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  masked  figure  which 

10  had  arrested  the  attention  of  no  single  individual  before. 
And  the  rumor  of  this  new  presence  having  spread  itself 
whisperingly  around,  there  arose  at  length  from  the 
whole  company  a  buzz,  or  murmur,  expressive  of  disappro- 
bation and  surprise — then,  finally,  of  terror,  of  horror, 

15  and  of  disgust. 

In  an  assembly  of  phantasms  such  as  I  have  painted, 
it  may  well  be  supposed  that  no  ordinary  appearance 
could  have  excited  such  sensation.  In  truth  the  mas- 
querade license  of  the  night  was  nearly  unlimited ;  but  the 

20  figure  in  question  had  out-Heroded  Herod,  and  gone  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  even  the  prince's  indefinite  decorum. 
There  are  chords  in  the  hearts  of  the  most  reckless  which 
cannot  be  touched  without  emotion.  Even  with  the  ut- 
terly lost,  to  whom  life  and  death  are  equally  jests,  there 

25  are  matters  of  which  no  jest  can  be  made.  The  whole 
company,  indeed,  seemed  now  deeply  to  feel  that  in  the 
costume  and  bearing  of  the  stranger  neither  wit  nor 
propriety  existed.  The  figure  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and 
shrouded  from  head  to  foot  in  the  habiliments  of  the 

30  grave.  The  mask  which  concealed  the  visage  was  made 
so  nearly  to  resemble  the  countenance  of  a  stiffened 
corpse  that  the  closest  scrutiny  must  have  had  difficulty 
in  detecting  the  cheat.  And  yet  all  this  might  have  been 
endured,  if  not  approved,  by  the  mad  revelers  around. 


The  Masque  of  the  Red  Death         139 

But  the  mummer  had  gone  so  far  as  to  assume  the  type 
of  the  Red  Death.  His  vesture  was  dabbled  in  blood — 
and  his  broad  brow,  with  all  the  features  of  the  face, 
was  besprinkled  with  the  scarlet  horror. 

When  the  eyes  of  Prince  Prospero  fell  upon  this  spec-  5 
tral  image  (which,  with  a  slow  and  solemn  movement, 
as  if  more  fully  to  sustain  its  role,  stalked  to  and  fro 
among  the  waltzers)  he  was  seen  to  be  convulsed,  in  the 
first  moment  with  a  strong  shudder  either  of  terror  or 
distaste;  but,  in  the  next,  his  brow  reddened  with  rage.  10 

"  Who  dares  " — he  demanded  hoarsely  of  the  courtiers 
who  stood  near  him — "  who  dares  insult  us  with  this 
blasphemous  mockery?  Seize  him  and  unmask  him — 
that  we  may  know  whom  we  have  to  hang,  at  sunrise, 
from  the  battlements!"  15 

It  was  in  the  eastern  or  blue  chamber  in  which 
stood  the  Prince  Prospero  as  he-  uttered  these  words. 
They  rang  throughout  the  seven  rooms  loudly  and  clearly, 
for  the  prince  was  a  bold  and  robust  man,  and  the  music 
had  become  hushed  at  the  waving  of  his  hand.  20 

It  was  in  the  blue  room  where  stood  the  prince,  with 
a  group  of  pale  courtiers  by  his  side.  At  first,  as  he 
spoke,  there  was  a  slight  rushing  movement  of  this  group 
in  the  direction  of  the  intruder,  who,  at  the  moment, 
was  also  near  at  hand,  and  now,  with  deliberate  and  25 
stately  step,  made  closer  approach  to  the  speaker.  But 
from  a  certain  nameless  awe  with  which  the  mad  as- 
sumptions of  the  mummer  had  inspired  the  whole  party, 
there  were  found  none  who  put  forth  hand  to  seize  him; 
so  that,  unimpeded,  he  passed  within  a  yard  of  the  30 
prince's  person;  and,  while  the  vast  assembly,  as  if  with 
one  impulse,  shrank  from  the  centers  of  the  rooms  to  the 
walls,  he  made  his  way  uninterruptedly,  but  with  the  same 
solemn  and  measured  step  which  had  distinguished  him 


140  The  Short  Story 

from  the  first,  through  the  blue  chamber  to  the  purple — 
through  the  purple  to  the  green — through  the  green  to 
the  orange — through  this  again  to  the  white — and  even 
thence  to  the  violet,  ere  a  decided  movement  had  been 
5  made  to  arrest  him.  It  was  then,  however,  that  the 
Prince  Prospero,  maddening  with  rage  and  the  shame  of 
his  own  momentary  cowardice,  rushed  hurriedly  through 
the  six  chambers,  while  none  followed  him  on  account 
of  a  deadly  terror  that  had  seized  upon  all.  He  bore 

10  aloft  a  drawn  dagger,  and  had  approached,  in  rapid  im- 
petuosity, to  within  three  or  four  feet  of  the  retreating 
figure,  when  the  latter,  having  attained  the  extremity 
of  the  velvet  apartment,  turned  suddenly  and  con- 
fronted his  pursuer.  There  was  a  sharp  cry — and  the 

15  dagger  dropped  gleaming  upon  the  sable  carpet,  upon 
which,  instantly  afterward,  fell  prostrate  in  death  the 
Prince  Prospero.  Then,  summoning  the  wild  courage  of 
despair,  a  throng  of  the  revelers  at  once  threw  themselves 
into  the  black  apartment,  and,  seizing  the  mummer,  whose 

20  tall  figure  stood  erect  and  motionless  within  the  shadow  of 
the  ebony  clock,  gasped  in  unutterable  horror  at  finding 
the  grave  cerements  and  corpse-like  mask,  which  they 
handled  with  so  violent  a  rudeness,  untenanted  by  any 
tangible  form. 

25  And  now  was  acknowledged  the  presence  of  the  Red 
Death.  He  had  come  like  a  thief  in  the  night.  And  one 
by  one  dropped  the  revelers  in  the  blood-bedewed  halls  of 
their  revel,  and  died  each  in  the  despairing  posture  of  his 
fall.  And  the  life  of  the  ebony  clock  went  out  with  that 

30  of  the  last  of  the  gay.  And  the  flames  of  the  tripods  ex- 
pired. And  Darkness  and  Decay  and  the  Red  Death 
held  illimitable  dominion  over  all. 


THE  GOLD-BUG* 


What  ho!  what  ho!  this  fellow  is  dancing  mad! 
He  hath  been  bitten  by  the  Tarantula. 

— All  in  the  Wrong. 

MANY  years  ago,  I  contracted  an  intimacy  with  a 
Mr.  William  Legrand.  He  was  of  an  ancient  Huguenot  5 
family,  and  had  once  been  wealthy ;  but  a  series  of  mis- 
fortunes had  reduced  him  to  want.  To  avoid  the  mortifi- 
cation consequent  upon  his  disasters,  he  left  New  Orleans, 
the  city  of  his  forefathers,  and  took  up  his  residence  at 
Sullivan's  Island,  near  Charleston,  South  Carolina.  ic> 

This  island  is  a  very  singular  one.  It  consists  of  little 
else  than  the  sea  sand,  and  is  about  three  miles  long.  Its 
breadth  at  no  point  exceeds  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  It  is 
separated  from  the  mainland  by  a  scarcely  perceptible 
creek,  oozing  its  way  through  a  wilderness  of  reeds  and  15 
slime,  a  favorite  resort  of  the  marsh-hen.  The  vege- 
tation, as  might  be  supposed,  is  scant,  or  at  least  dwarfish. 
No  trees  of  any  magnitude  are  to  be  seen.  Near  the 
western  extremity,  where  Fort  Moultrie  stands,  and 
where  are  some  miserable  frame  buildings,  tenanted  dur-  20 
ing  summer  by  the  fugitives  from  Charleston  dust  and 
fever,  may  be  found,  indeed,  the  bristly  palmetto;  but  the 

*  See  note  to  The  Matque  of  the  Red  Death.     The  Gold-Bug 
was  first   published  in   1843. 

141 


142  The  Short  Story 

whole  island,  with  the  exception  of  this  western  point, 
and  a  line  of  hard  white  beach  on  the  seacoast,  is  covered 
with  a  dense  undergrowth  of  the  sweet  myrtle,  so  much 
prized  by  the  horticulturists  of  England.  The  shrub 
5  here  often  attains  the  height  of  fifteen  or  twenty  feet, 
and  forms  an  almost  impenetrable  coppice,  burdening  the 
air  with  its  fragrance. 

In  the  utmost  recesses  of  this  coppice,  not  far  from 
the  eastern  or  more  remote  end  of  the  island,  Legrand 

10  had  built  himself  a  small  hut,  which  he  occupied  when  I 
first,  by  mere  accident,  made  his  acquaintance.  This  soon 
ripened  into  friendship — for  there  was  much  in  the  recluse 
to  excite  interest  and  esteem.  I  found  him  well  educated, 
with  unusual  powers  of  mind,  but  infected  with  misan- 

15  thropy,  and  subject  to  perverse  moods  of  alternate  en- 
thusiasm and  melancholy.  He  had  with  him  many  books, 
but  rarely  employed  them.  His  chief  amusements  were 
gunning  and  fishing,  or  sauntering  along  the  beach  and 
through  the  myrtles,  in  quest  of  shells  or  entomological 

20  specimens ; — his  collection  of  the  latter  might  have  been 
envied  by  a  Swammerdamm.  In  these  excursions  he  was 
usually  accompanied  by  an  old  negro,  called  Jupiter,  who 
had  been  manumitted  before  the  reverses  of  the  family, 
but  who  could  be  induced,  neither  by  threats  nor  by 

25  promises,  to  abandon  what  he  considered  his  right  of 
attendance  upon  the  footsteps  of  his  young  "  Massa  Will." 
It  is  not  improbable  that  the  relatives  of  Legrand,  con- 
ceiving him  to  be  somewhat  unsettled  in  intellect,  had 
contrived  to  instil  this  obstinacy  into  Jupiter,  with  a  view 

30  to  the  supervision  and  guardianship  of  the  wanderer. 

The  winters  in  the  latitude  of  Sullivan's  Island  are 
seldom  very  severe,  and  in  the  fall  of  the  year  it  is  a 
rare  event  indeed  when  a  fire  is  considered  necessary. 
About  the  middle  of  October,  18 — ,  there  occurred,  how- 


The  Gold-Bug  143 

ever,  a  day  of  remarkable  chilliness.  Just  before  sunset 
I  scrambled  my  way  through  the  evergreens  to  the  hut 
of  my  friend,  whom  I  had  not  visited  for  several  weeks — 
my  residence  being  at  that  time  in  Charleston,  a  distance 
of  nine  miles  from  the  island,  while  the  facilities  of  5 
passage  and  re-passage  were  very  far  behind  those  of  the 
present  day.  Upon  reaching  the  hut  I  rapped,  as  was 
my  custom,  and,  getting  no  reply,  sought  for  the  key 
where  I  knew  it  was  secreted,  unlocked  the  door,  and 
went  in.  A  fine  fire  was  blazing  upon  the  hearth.  It  10 
was  a  novelty,  and  by  no  means  an  ungrateful  one.  I 
threw  off  an  overcoat,  took  an  armchair  by  the  crack- 
ling logs,  and  awaited  patiently  the  arrival  of  my 
hosts. 

Soon   after  dark  they  arrived,  and   gave  me  a  most  15 
cordial    welcome.      Jupiter,    grinning    from    ear   to   ear, 
bustled   about   to   prepare   some   marsh-hens   for   supper. 
Legrand  was  in  one  of  his  fits — how  else  shall  I  term 
them? — of  enthusiasm.     He  had  found  an  unknown  bi- 
valve, forming  a  new  genus,  and,  more  than  this,  he  had  20 
hunted   down    and   secured,   with   Jupiter's   assistance,    a 
scarabezus  which  he  believed   to  be  totally  new,  but  in 
respect  to  which  he  wished  to  have  my  opinion  on  the 
morrow. 

"And  why  not  to-night?"  I  asked,  rubbing  my  hands  25 
over  the  blaze,  and  wishing  the  whole  tribe  of  tcaraixei 
at  the  devil. 

"Ah,    if    I    had   only   known   you   were  here!"   said 
Legrand,  "but  it's  so  long  since   I  saw  you;  and  how 
could  I  foresee  that  you  would  pay  me  a  visit  this  very  30 
night  of  all  others?    As  I  was  coming  home  I  met  Lieu- 
tenant G ,  from  the  fort,  and,  very  foolishly,  I  lent 

him  the  bug;  so  it  will  be  impossible  for  you  to  see  it 
until  the  morning.     Stay  here  to-night,  and  I  will  send 


144  The  Short  Story 

Jup  down  for  it  at  sunrise.     It  is  the  loveliest  thing  in 
creation !  " 

"What?— sunrise?" 

"Nonsense!  no! — the  bug.     It  is  of  a  brilliant  gold 
5  color — about  the  size  of  a  large  hickory-nut — with  two 
jet  black  spots  near  one  extremity  of  the  back,  and  an- 
other,   somewhat    longer,    at    the   other.      The   antenna 

are " 

"  Dey  aint  no  tin  in  him,  Massa  Will,  I  keep  a  tellin 

10  on  you,"  here  interrupted  Jupiter;  "  de  bug  is  a  goole- 
bug,  solid,  ebery  bit  of  him,  inside  and  all,  sep  him 
wing — neber  feel  half  so  hebby  a  bug  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  suppose  it  is,  Jup,"  replied  Legrand,  somewhat 
more  earnestly,  it  seemed  to  me,  than  the  case  demanded, 

15  "  is  that  any  reason  for  your  letting  the  birds  burn?  The 
color  " — here  he  turned  to  me — "  is  really  almost  enough 
to  warrant  Jupiter's  idea.  You  never  saw  a  more  bril- 
liant metallic  luster  than  the  scales  emit — but  of  this  you 
cannot  judge  till  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime  I  can  give 

20  you  some  idea  of  the  shape/'  Saying  this,  he  seated 
himself  at  a  small  table,  on  which  were  a  pen  and  ink, 
but  no  paper.  He  looked  for  some  in  a  drawer,  but  found 
none. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  he  at  length,  "  this  will  answer;  " 

25  and  he  drew  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  scrap  of  what  I 
took  to  be  very  dirty  foolscap,  and  made  upon  it  a  rough 
drawing  with  the  pen.  While  he  did  this,  I  retained  my 
seat  by  the  fire,  for  I  was  still  chilly.  When  the  design 
was  complete,  he  handed  it  to  me  without  rising.  As  I 

30  received  it,  a  low  growl  was  heard,  succeeded  by  a 
scratching  at  the  door.  Jupiter  opened  it,  and  a  large 
Newfoundland,  belonging  to  Legrand,  rushed  in,  leaped 
upon  my  shoulders,  and  loaded  me  with  caresses;  for  I 
had  shown  him  much  attention  during  previous  visits. 


The  Gold-Bug  145 

When  his  gambols  were  over,  I  looked  at  the  paper,  and, 
to  speak  the  truth,  found  myself  not  a  little  puzzled  at 
what  my  friend  had  depicted. 

"  Well!  "  I  said,  after  contemplating  it  for  some  min- 
utes, "this  is  a  strange  scarabaus,  I  must  confess;  new  5 
to  me:  never  saw  anything  like  it  before — unless  it  was  a 
skull,  or  a  death's-head,  which  it  more  nearly  resembles 
than  anything  else  that  has  come  under  my  observa- 
tion." 

"A    death's-head!"     echoed     Legrand — "Oh — yes —  10 
well,   it  has  something  of  that   appearance   upon   paper, 
no  doubt. .   The  two  upper  black  spots  look   like  eyes, 
eh?  and  the  longer  one  at  the  bottom  like  a  mouth — and 
then  the  shape  of  the  whole  is  oval." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  I ;  "  but,  Legrand,  I  fear  you  are  15 
no  artist.     I  must  wait  until  I  see  the  beetle  itself,  if 
I  am  to  form  any  idea  of  its  personal  appearance." 

"  Well,   I   don't  know,"  said  he,  a  little  nettled,  "  I 
draw  tolerably — should  do   it   at   least — have  had   good 
masters,  and  flatter  myself  that  I  am  not  quite  a  block-  20 
head." 

"  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  joking  then,"  said  I, 
"  this  is  a  very  passable  skull, — indeed,  I  may  say  that  it 
is  a  very  excellent  skull,  according  to  the  vulgar  notions 
about  such  specimens  of  physiology — and  your  scarabaus  25 
must  be  the  queerest  scarabtzus  in  the  world  if  it  resem- 
bles it.     Why,  we  may  get  up  a  very  thrilling  bit  of 
superstition  upon  this  hint.     I  presume  you  will  call  the 
bug  scarabaus  caput  hominis,  or  something  of  that  kind — 
there  are  many  similar  titles  in  the  Natural   Histories.  30 
But  where  are  the  antenna  you  spoke  of  ?  " 

"  The  antenna!  "  said  Legrand,  who  seemed  to  be  get- 
ting unaccountably  warm  upon  the  subject ;  "  I  am  sure 
you  must  see  the  antenna.  I  made  them  as  distinct  as 


146  The  Short  Story 

they  are  in  the  original  insect,  and  I  presume  that  is  suffi- 
cient." 

"  Well,  well,"  I  said,  "  perhaps  you  have — still  I  don't 
see  them;"  and  I  handed  him  the  paper  without  addi- 
5  tional  remark,  not  wishing  to  ruffle  his  temper ;  but  I  was 
much  surprised  "at  the  turn  affairs  had  taken;  his  ill 
humor  puzzled  me — and,  as  for  the  drawing  of  the  beetle, 
there  were  positively  no  antenna  visible,  and  the  whole 
did  bear  a  very  close  resemblance  to  the  ordinary  cuts 

10  of  a  death's-head. 

He  received  the  paper  very  peevishly,  and  was  about  to 
crumple  it,  apparently  to  throw  it  in  the  fire,  when  a 
casual  glance  at  the  design  seemed  suddenly  to  rivet 
his  attention.  In  an  instant  his  face  grew  violently  red 

15  — in  another  as  excessively  pale.  For  some  minutes  he 
continued  to  scrutinize  the  drawing  minutely  where  he 
sat.  At  length  he  arose,  took  a  candle  from  the  table, 
and  proceeded  to  seat  himself  upon  a  sea-chest  in  the 
farthest  corner  of  the  room.  Here  again  he  made  an 

20  anxious  examination  of  the  paper ;  turning  it  in  all  direc- 
tions. He  said  nothing,  however,  and  his  conduct  greatly 
astonished  me;  yet  I  thought  it  prudent  not  to  exacer- 
bate the  growing  moodiness  of  his  temper  by  any  com- 
ment. Presently  he  took  from  his  coat  pocket  a  wallet, 

25  placed  the  paper  carefully  in  it,  and  deposited  both  in  a 
writing-desk,  which  he  locked.  He  now  grew  more  com- 
posed in  his  demeanor;  but  his  original  air  of  enthusiasm 
had  quite  disappeared.  Yet  he  seemed  not  so  much  sulky 
as  abstracted.  As  the  evening  wore  away  he  became 

30  more  and  more  absorbed  in  revery,  from  which  no  sallies 
of  mine  could  arouse  him.  It  had  been  my  intention 
to  pass  the  night  at  the  hut,  as  I  had  frequently  done 
before,  but,  seeing  my  host  in  this  mood,  I  deemed  it 
proper  to  take  leave.  He  did  not  press  me  to  remain, 


The  Gold-Bug  147 

but,  as  I  departed,  he  shook  my  hand  with  even  more 
than  his  usual  cordiality. 

It  was  about  a  month  after  this  (and  during  the  inter- 
val I  had  seen  nothing  of  Legrand)   when  I  received  a 
visit,  at  Charleston,  from  his  man,  Jupiter.     I  had  never  5 
seen  the  good  old  negro  look  so  dispirited,  and  I  feared 
that  some  serious  disaster  had  befallen  my  friend. 

"  Well,  Jup,"  said  I,  "  what  is  the  matter  now? — how 
is  your  master?  " 

"  Why,  to  speak  de  troof,  massa,  him  not  so  berry  well  10 
as  mought  be." 

"  Not  well!  I  am  truly  sorry  to  hear  it.  What  does 
he  complain  of?  " 

"  Dar!  dat's  it! — him  nebber  plain  of  notin — but  him 
berry  sick  for  all  dat."  15 

"  Very  sick,  Jupiter! — why  didn't  you  say  so  at  once? 
Is  he  confined  to  bed  ?  " 

"No,  dat  he  aint! — he  aint  find  nowhar — dat's  just 
whar  de  shoe  pinch — my  mind  is  got  to  be  berry  hebby 
bout  poor  Massa  Will."  20 

"  Jupiter,  I  should  like  to  understand  what  it  is  you 
are  talking  about.  You  say  your  master  is  sick.  Hasn't 
he  told  you  what  ails  him  ?  " 

"  Why,  massa,  taint  worf  while  for  to  git  mad  bout 
de  matter — Massa  Will  say  noffin  at  all  aint  de  matter  25 
wid  him — but  den  what  make  him  go  about  looking  dis 
here  way,  wid  he  head  down  and  he  soldiers  up,  and 
as  white  as  a  gose?  And  den  he  keep  a  syphon  all  de 
time— 

"  Keeps  a  what,  Jupiter?  "  30 

"  Keeps  a  syphon  wid  de  figgurs  on  de  slate — de  queer- 
est figgurs  I  ebber  did  see.  Ise  gittin  to  be  skeered,  I  tell 
you.  Hab  for  to  keep  mighty  tight  eye  pon  him  noovers. 
Todder  day  he  gib  me  slip  fore  de  sun  up  and  was  gone  de 


148  The  Short  Story 

whole  ob  de  blessed  day.     I  had  a  big  stick  ready  cut 

for  to  gib  him  d d  good  beating  when  he  did  come — 

but  Ise  sich  a  fool  dat  I  hadn't  de  heart  arter  all — he  look 
so  berry  poorly." 

5  "Eh? — what? — ah  yes! — upon  the  whole  I  think  you 
had  better  not  be  too  severe  with  the  poor  fellow — don't 
flog  him,  Jupiter — he  can't  very  well  stand  it — but  can 
you  form  no  idea  of  what  has  occasioned  this  illness,  or 
rather  this  change  of  conduct?  Has  anything  unpleasant 
10  happened  since  I  saw  you?  " 

"  No,  massa,  dey  aint  bin  noffin  onpleasant  since  den 
— 'twas  fore  den  I'm  feared — 'twas  de  berry  day  you  was 
dare." 

"How?  what  do  you  mean?" 
15       "  Why,  massa,  I  mean  de  bug — dare  now." 

"The  what?" 

"  De  bug — I'm  berry  sartain  dat  Massa  Will  bin  bit 
somewhere  bout  de  head  by  dat  goole-bug." 

"  And  what  cause  have  you,  Jupiter,  for  such  a  sup- 
20  position  ?  " 

"  Claws  enuff,  massa,  and  mouff  too.     I  nebber  did 

see  sich  a  d d  bug — he  kick  and  he  bite  ebery  ting 

what  cum  near  him.  Massa  Will  cotch  him  fuss,  but 
had  for  to  let  him  go  gin  mighty  quick,  I  tell  you — den 
25  was  de  time  he  must  ha  got  de  bite.  I  didn't  like  de  look 
ob  de  bug  mouff,  myself,  no  how,  so  I  wouldn't  take  hold 
ob  him  wid  my  finger,  but  I  cotch  him  wid  a  piece  ob 
paper  dat  I  found.  I  rap  him  up  in  de  paper  and  stuff 
piece  ob  it  in  he  mouff — dat  was  de  way." 
30  "  And  you  think,  then,  that  your  master  was  really 
bitten  by  the  beetle,  and  that  the  bite  made  him 
sick?" 

"  I  don't  tink  noffin  about  it — I  nose  it.  What  make 
him  dream  bout  de  goole  so  much,  if  taint  cause  he  bit 


The  Gold-Bug  149 

by  de  goole-bug?     Ise  heerd  bout  dem  goole-bugs  fore 
dis." 

"  But  how  do  you  know  he  dreams  about  gold?  " 
"  How   I   know?  why  cause  he  talk  about   it   in   he 
sleep — dat's  how  I  nose."  5 

"  Well,  Jup,  perhaps  you  are  right ;  but  to  what  for- 
tunate circumstance  am  I  to  attribute  the  honor  of  a  visit 
from  you  to-day  ?  " 

"  What  de  matter,  massa?  " 

"  Did  you  bring  any  message  from  Mr.  Legrand?  "        10 
"  No,  massa,  I  bring  dis  here  pissel ;  "  and  here  Jupiter 
handed  me  a  note  which  ran  thus : 

"  MY  DEAR  -    — ,  Why  have  I  not  seen  you  for  so 
long  a  time?     I  hope  you  have  not  been  so  foolish  as  to 
take  offence  at  any  little  brusquerie  of  mine;  but  no,  that  15 
is  improbable. 

"  Since  I  saw  you  I  have  had  great  cause  for  anxiety. 
I  have  something  to  tell  you,  yet  scarcely  know  how  to  tell 
it,  or  whether  I  should  tell  it  at  all. 

"  I  have  not  been  quite  well  for  some  days  past,  and  20 
poor  old  Jup  annoys  me,  almost  beyond  endurance,  by 
his  well-meant  attentions.     Would   you   believe  it? — he 
had  prepared  a  huge  stick,  the  other  day,  with  which  to 
chastise   me   for   giving  him   the   slip,   and   spending  the 
day,  solus,  among  the  hills  on   the  mainland.      I   verily  25 
believe  that  my  ill  looks  alone  saved  me  a  flogging. 

"  I  have  made  no  addition  to  my  cabinet  since  we  met. 

"  If  you  can,  in  any  way,  make  it  convenient,  come 
over  with  Jupiter.    Do  come.     I  wish  to  see  you  to-night, 
upon  business  of  importance.     I  assure  you  that  it  is  of  30 
the  highest  importance. 

"  Ever  yours, 

"  WILLIAM  LEGRAND." 


150  The  Short  Story 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  this  note  which 
gave  me  great  uneasiness.  Its  whole  style  differed  ma- 
terially from  that  of  Legrand.  What  could  he  be  dream- 
ing of  ?  What  new  crotchet  possessed  his  excitable  brain  ? 

5  What  "  business  of  the  highest  importance  "  could  he  pos- 
sibly have  to  transact?  Jupiter's  account  of  him  boded 
no  good.  I  dreaded  lest  the  continued  pressure  of  mis- 
fortune had,  at  length,  fairly  unsettled  the  reason  of  my 
friend.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  therefore,  I  pre- 

10  pa/ed  to  accompany  the  negro. 

Upon  reaching  the  wharf,  I  noticed  a  scythe  and  three 
spades,  all  apparently  new,  lying  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  in  which  we  were  to  embark. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Jup?"  I  inquired. 

15       "  Him  syfe,  massa,  and  spade." 

"Very  true;  but  what  are  they  doing  here?" 
"  Him   de  syfe   and   de  spade  what   Massa  Will   sis 
pon  my  buying  for  him  in  de  town,  and  de  debbil's  own 
lot  of  money  I  had  to  gib  for  em." 

20       "  But  what,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  mysterious,  is 

your  '  Massa  Will '  going  to  do  with  scythes  and  spades?  " 

"  Dat's  more  dan  /  know,  and   debbil  take  me  if   I 

don't  blieve   'tis  more  dan  he  know,  too.     But  it's  all 

cum  ob  de  bug." 

25  Finding  that  no  satisfaction  was  to  be  obtained  of 
Jupiter,  whose  whole  intellect  seemed  to  be  absorbed  by 
"  de  bug,"  I  now  stepped  into  the  boat  and  made  sail. 
With  a  fair  and  strong  breeze  we  soon  ran  into  the  little 
cove  to  the  northward  of  Fort  Moultrie,  and  a  walk  of 

30  some  two  miles  brought  us  to  the  hut.  It  was  about  three 
in  the  afternoon  when  we  arrived.  Legrand  had  been 
awaiting  us  in  eager  expectation.  He  grasped  my  hand 
with  a  nervous  empressement,  which  alarmed  me  and 
strengthened  the  suspicions  already  entertained.  His 


The  Gold-Bug  151 

countenance  was  pale,  even  to  ghastliness,  and  his  deep- 
set  eyes  glared  with  unnatural  luster.  After  some  in- 
quiries respecting  his  health,  I  asked  him,  not  knowing 
what  better  to  say,  if  he  had  yet  obtained  the  scarabeeus 
from  Lieutenant  G .  5 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  replied,  coloring  violently,  "  I  got  it 
from  him  the  next  morning.  Nothing  should  tempt  me 
to  part  with  that  scarab<eus.  Do  you  know  that  Jupiter 
is  quite  right  about  it?" 

"In  what  way?"  I  asked,  with  a  sad  foreboding  at  10 
heart. 

"  In  supposing  it  to  be  a  bug  of  real  gold."  He  said 
this  with  an  air  of  profound  seriousness,  and  I  felt  inex- 
pressibly shocked. 

'  This  bug  is  to  make  my  fortune,"  he  continued,  with  15 
a  triumphant  smile,  "  to  reinstate  me  in  my  family  pos- 
sessions.    Is  it  any  wonder,  then,  that  I  prize  it?     Since 
Fortune  has  thought  fit  to  bestow  it  upon  me,  I  have 
only    to    use    it    properly    and    I    shall    arrive    at    the 
gold  of  which  it  is  the  index.     Jupiter,  bring  me  that  20 
scarabaus!  " 

"  What!  de  bug,  massa?  I'd  rudder  not  go  fer  trubble 
dat  bug — you  mus  git  him  for  your  own  self."  Hereupon 
Legrand  arose,  with  a  grave  and  stately  air,  and  brought 
me  the  beetle  from  a  glass  case  in  which  it  was  inclosed.  25 
It  was  a  beautiful  scarab&us,  and,  at  that  time,  unknown 
to  naturalists — of  course  a  great  prize  in  a  scientific  point 
of  view.  There  were  two  round,  black  spots  near  one 
extremity  of  the  back,  and  a  long  one  near  the  other.  The 
scales  were  exceedingly  hard  and  glossy,  with  all  the  ap-  30 
pearance  of  burnished  gold.  The  weight  of  the  insect 
was  very  remarkable,  and,  taking  all  things  into  con- 
sideration, I  could  hardly  blame  Jupiter  for  his  opinion 
respecting  it;  but  what  to  make  of  Legrand's  agree- 


152  The  Short  Story 

ment  with  that  opinion,  I  could  not,  for  the  life  of  me, 
tell. 

"  I  sent  for  you,"  said  he,  in  a  grandiloquent  tone, 
when    I   had   completed   my   examination   of   the   beetle, 
5  "  I  sent  for  you,  that  I  might  have  your  counsel  and  as- 
sistance   in    furthering   the    views   of    Fate    and    of   the 
bug " 

"  My  dear  Legrand,"  I  cried,  interrupting  him,  "  you 
are   certainly    unwell,    and    had    better    use   some    little 
10  precautions.    You  shall  go  to  bed,  and  I  will  remain  with 
you  a  few  days,  until  you  get  over  this.     You  are  fever- 
ish and " 

"  Feel  my  pulse,"  said  he. 

I  felt  it,  and  to  say  the  truth,  found  not  the  slightest 
15  indication   of   fever. 

"  But  you  may  be  ill,  and  yet  have  no  fever.  Allow 
me  this  once  to  prescribe  for  you.  In  the  first  place,  go  to 
bed.  In  the  next " 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  he  interposed,  "  I  am  as  well  as 
20  I  can  expect  to  be  under  the  excitement  which  I  suffer. 
If  you  really  wish  me  well,  you  will  relieve  this  excite- 
ment." 

"And  how  is  this  to  be  done?  " 

"  Very  easily.     Jupiter  and  myself  are  going  upon  an 

25  expedition  into  the  hills,  upon  the  mainland,  and,  in  this 

expedition,  we  shall  need  the  aid  of  some  person  in  whom 

we  can  confide.     You  are  the  only  one  we  can   trust. 

Whether  we  succeed  or  fail,  the  excitement  which  you 

now   perceive  in   me  will  be  equally   allayed." 

30       "  I  am  anxious  to  oblige  you  in  any  way,"  I  replied ; 

"  but    do    you    mean    to    say    that    this    infernal    beetle 

has    any    connection    with    your    expedition     into     the 

hills?" 

"  It  has." 


The  Gold-Bug  153 

"  Then,   Legrand,   I  can  become  a  party  to  no  such 
absurd  proceeding." 

"  I  am  sorry — very  sorry — for  we  shall  have  to  try 
it  by  ourselves." 

"Try  it  by  yourselves!     The  man  is  surely  mad! —  5 
but  stay — how  long  do  you  propose  to  be  absent  ?  " 

"  Probably  all  night.    We  shall  start  immediately,  and 
be  back,  at  all  events,  by  sunrise." 

"  And  will  you  promise  me,  upon  your  honor,  that  when 
this  freak  of  yours  is  over,  and  the  bug  business   (good  10 
God!)   settled  to  your  satisfaction,  you  will  then  return 
home  and  follow  my  advice  implicitly,  as  that  of  your 
physician  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  promise ;  and  now  let  us  be  off,  for  we  have 
no  time  to  lose."  15 

With  a  heavy  heart  I  accompanied  my  friend.  We 
started  about  four  o'clock — Legrand,  Jupiter,  the  dog, 
and  myself.  Jupiter  had  with  him  the  scythe  and  spades 
— the  whole  of  which  he  insisted  upon  carrying,  more 
through  fear,  it  seemed  to  me,  of  trusting  either  of  20 
the  implements  within  reach  of  his  master,  than  from  any 
excess  of  industry  or  complaisance.  His  demeanor  was 

dogged  in  the  extreme,  and  "  dat  d d  bug  "  were  the 

sole  words  which  escaped  his  lips  during  the  journey.  For 
my  own  part,  I  had  charge  of  a  couple  of  dark  lanterns,  25 
while  Legrand  contented  himself  with  the  scarab&us, 
which  he  carried  attached  to  the  end  of  a  bit  of  whip- 
cord ;  twirling  it  to  and  fro,  with  the  air  of  a  conjurer, 
as  he  went.  When  I  observed  this  last,  plain  evidence 
of  my  friend's  aberration  of  mind,  I  could  scarcely  re-  30 
frain  from  tears.  I  thought  it  best,  however,  to  humor 
his  fancy,  at  least  for  the  present,  or  until  t  could  adopt 
some  more  energetic  measures  with  a  chance  of  success. 
In  the  meantime  I  endeavored,  but  all  in  vain,  to  sound 


154  The  Short  Story 

him  in  regard  to  the  object  of  the  expedition.  Having 
succeeded  in  inducing  me  to  accompany  him,  he  seemed 
unwilling  to  hold  conversation  upon  any  topic  of  minor 
importance,  and  to  all  my  questions  vouchsafed  no  other 
5  reply  than  "  we  shall  see !  " 

We  crossed  the  creek  at  the  head  of  the  island  by 
means  of  a  skiff,  and,  ascending  the  high  grounds  on  the 
shore  of  the  mainland,  proceeded  in  a  northwesterly  di- 
rection, through  a  tract  of  country  excessively  wild  and 
10  desolate,  where  no  trace  of  a  human  footstep  was  to  be 
seen.  Legrand  led  the  way  with  decision;  pausing  only 
for  an  instant,  here  and  there,  to  consult  what  appeared 
to  be  certain  landmarks  of  his  own  contrivance  upon  a 
former  occasion. 

15  In  this  manner  we  journeyed  for  about  two  hours,  and 
the  sun  was  just  setting  when  we  entered  a  region  in- 
finitely more  dreary  than  any  yet  seen.  It  was  a  species 
of  tableland,  near  the  summit  of  an  almost  inaccessible 
hill,  densely  wooded  from  base  to  pinnacle,  and  inter- 
so  spersed  with  huge  crags  that  appeared  to  lie  loosely  upon 
the  soil,  and  in  many  cases  were  prevented  from  precipitat- 
ing themselves  into  the  valleys  below  merely  by  the  sup- 
port of  the  trees  against  which  they  reclined.  Deep 
ravines,  in  various  directions,  gave  an  air  of  still  sterner 
25  solemnity  to  the  scene. 

The  natural  platform  to  which  we  had  clambered 
was  thickly  overgrown  with  brambles,  through  which  we 
soon  discovered  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  to. 
force  our  way  but  for  the  scythe;  and  Jupiter,  by  direc- 
3Q  tion  of  his  master,  proceeded  to  clear  for  us  a  path  to 
the  foot  of  an  enormously  tall  tulip-tree,  which  stood, 
with  some  eight  or  ten  oaks,  upon  the  level,  and  far  sur- 
passed them  all,  and  all  other  trees  which  I  had  then 
ever  seen,  in  the  beauty  of  its  foliage  and  form,  in  the 


The  Gold-Bug  155 

wide  spread  of  its  branches,  and  in  the  general  majesty 
of  its  appearance.  When  we  reached  this  tree,  Legrand 
turned  to  Jupiter,  and  asked  him  if  he  thought  he  could 
climb  it.  The  old  man  seemed  a  little  staggered  by  the 
question,  and  for  some  moments  made  no  reply.  At  5 
length  he  approached  the  huge  trunk,  walked  slowly 
around  it,  and  examined  it  with  minute  attention.  When 
he  had  completed  his  scrutiny,  he  merely  said: 

"  Yes,  massa,  Jup  climb  any  tree  he  ebber  see  in  he 
life."  10 

"  Then  up  with  you  as  soon  as  possible,  for  it  will 
soon  be  too  dark  to  see  what  we  are  about." 

"How  far  mus  go  up,  massa?"  inquired  Jupiter. 

"  Get  up  the  main  trunk  first,  and   then   I   will  tell 
you  which  way  to  go — and  here — stop!  take  this  beetle  15 
with  you." 

"  De  bug,  Massa  Will! — de  goole-bug!  "  cried  the 
negro,  drawing  back  in  dismay — "  what  for  mus  tote 
de  bug  way  up  de  tree? — d n  if  I  do!  " 

"  If  you  are  afraid,  Jup,  a  great  big  negro  like  you,  20 
to  take  hold  of  a  harmless  little  dead  beetle,  why,  you 
can  carry  it  up  by  this  string — but,  if  you  do  not  take 
it  up  with  you  in  some  way,  I  shall  be  under  the  necessity 
of  breaking  your  head  with  this  shovel." 

"What  de  matter  now,  massa?"  said  Jup,  evidently  25 
shamed  into  compliance ;  "  always  want  fur  to  raise  fuss 
wid  old  nigger.    Was  only  funnin  anyhow.    Me  feered  de 
bug!  what  I  keer  for  de  bug?  "     Here  he  took  cautiously 
hold  of  the  extreme  end  of  the  string,  and,  maintaining 
the  insect  as  far  from  his  person  as  circumstances  would  30 
permit,  prepared  to  ascend  the  tree. 

In  youth,  the  tulip-tree,  or  Liriodendron  Tulipifera, 
the  most  magnificent  of  American  foresters,  has  a  trunk 
peculiarly  smooth,  and  often  rises  to  a  great  height  with- 


156  The  Short  Story 

out  lateral  branches;  but,  in  his  riper  age,  the  bark  be- 
comes gnarled  and  uneven,  while  many  short  limbs  make 
their  appearance  on  the  stem.  Thus  the  difficulty  of 
ascension,  in  the  present  case,  lay  more  in  semblance  than 
5  in  reality.  Embracing  the  huge  cylinder,  as  closely  as 
possible,  with  his  arms  and  knees,  seizing  with  his  hands 
some  projections,  and  resting  his  naked  toes  upon  others, 
Jupiter,  after  one  or  two  narrow  escapes  from  falling,  at 
length  wriggled  himself  into  the  first  great  fork,  and 
10  seemed  to  consider  the  whole  business  as  virtually  ac- 
complished. The  risk  of  the  achievement  was,  in  fact, 
now  over,  although  the  climber  was  some  sixty  or  seventy 
feet  from  the  ground. 

"  Which  way  mus  go  now,  Massa  Will  ?  "  he  asked. 

15       "  Keep  up  the  largest  branch, — the  one  on  this  side," 

said    Legrand.      The   negro   obeyed    him   promptly,    and 

apparently  with  but  little  trouble,  ascending  higher  and 

higher,   until    no   glimpse   of   his   squat   figure   could   be 

obtained   through  the  dense   foliage  which  enveloped  it. 

20  Presently  his  voice  was  heard  in  a  sort  of  halloo. 

"  How  much  fudder  is  got  for  go?  " 

"How  high  up  are  you?"  asked  Legrand. 

"  Ebber  so  fur,"  replied  the  negro;  "  can  see  de  sky  fru 
de  top  ob  de  tree." 

25  "  Never  mind  the  sky,  but  attend  to  what  I  say. 
Look  down  the  trunk  and  count  the  limbs  below  you  on 
this  side.  How  many  limbs  have  you  passed?" 

"  One,    two,    tree,    four,    fibe — I    done    pass   fibe    big 
limb,  massa,  pon  dis  side." 
30       "  Then  go  one  limb  higher." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  voice  was  heard  again,  announcing 
that  the  seventh  limb  was  attained. 

"  Now,  Jup,"  cried  Legrand,  evidently  much  excited, 
"  I  want  you  to  work  your  way  out  upon  that  limb  as 


The  Gold-Bug  157 

far  as  you  can.     If  you  see  anything  strange,   let   me 
know." 

By  this  time  what  little  doubt  I  might  have  entertained 
of  my  poor  friend's  insanity  was  put  finally  at  rest.  I 
had  no  alternative  but  to  conclude  him  stricken  with  5 
lunacy,  and  I  became  seriously  anxious  about  getting  him 
home.  While  I  was  pondering  upon  what  was  best  to  be 
done,  Jupiter's  voice  was  again  heard. 

"  Mos  feerd  for  to  ventur  pon  dis  limb  berry  far — 'tis 
dead  limb  putty  much  all  de  way."  10 

"Did  you  say  it  was  a  dead  limb,  Jupiter?"  cried 
Legrand  in  a  quavering  voice. 

"  Yes,  massa,  him  dead  as  de  door-nail — done  up  for 
sartain — done  departed  dis  here  life." 

"  What  in  the  name  of  heaven  shall  I  do?  "  asked  Le-  15 
grand,  seemingly  in  the  greatest  distress. 

"  Do !  "  said  I,  glad  of  an  opportunity  to  interpose 
a  word,  "  why  come  home  and  go  to  bed.  Come  now! — 
that's  a  fine  fellow.  It's  getting  late,  and,  besides,  you 
remember  your  promise."  20 

"  Jupiter,"  cried  he,  without  heeding  me  in  the  least, 
"  do  you  hear  me?  " 

"  Yes,  Massa  Will,  hear  you  ebber  so  plain." 

"  Try  the  wood  well,  then,  with  your  knife,  and  see 
if  you  think  it  very  rotten."  25 

"  Him  rotten,  massa,  sure  nuff,"  replied  the  negro 
in  a  few  moments,  "  but  not  so  berry  rotten  as  mought 
be.  Mought  ventur  out  leetle  way  pon  de  limb  by  my- 
self, dat's  true." 

"By  yourself! — what  do  you  mean?"  30 

"  Why,  I  mean  de  bug.  'Tis  berry  hebby  bug.  Spose 
I  drop  him  down  fuss,  and  den  de  limb  won't  break 
wid  just  de  weight  of  one  nigger." 

"You  infernal  scoundrel!"  cried  Legrand,  apparently 


158  The  Short  Story 

much  relieved,  "  what  do  you  mean  by  telling  me  such 
nonsense  as  that?  As  sure  as  you  let  that  beetle  fall,  I'll 
break  your  neck.  Look  here,  Jupiter!  do  you  hear  me?  " 

"  Yes,  massa,  needn't  hollo  at  poor  nigger  dat  style." 

5       "Well!  now  listen! — if  you  will  venture  out  on  the 

limb  as  far  as  you  think  safe,  and  not  let  go  the  beetle, 

I'll  make  you  a  present  of  a  silver  dollar  as  soon  as  you 

get  down." 

"  I'm    gwine,    Massa  Will — deed    I    is,"    replied    the 
10  negro  very  promptly — "  mos  out  to  the  eend  now." 

"  Out  to  the  end! "  here  fairly  screamed  Legrand, 
"  do  you  say  you  are  out  to  the  end  of  that  limb  ?  " 

"Soon  be  to  de  eend,  massa, — o-o-o-o-oh!     Lor-gol- 
a-marcy!  what  is  dis  here  pon  de  tree?" 
15       "Well!"  cried   Legrand,  highly  delighted,  "what  is 
it?" 

"  Why  taint  noffin  but  a  skull — somebody  bin  lef  him 
head  up  de  tree,  and  de  crows  done  gobble  ebery  bit  ob 
de  meat  off." 

20       "A  skull,  you  say! — very  well! — how  is  it  fastened 
to  the  limb? — what  holds  it  on?" 

"  Sure  nuff,  massa;  must  look.    Why,  dis  berry  curous 
sarcumstance,  pon  my  word — dare's  a  great  big  nail  in  de 
skull,  what  fastens  ob  it  on  to  de  tree." 
25       "  Well  now,  Jupiter,  do  exactly  as  I  tell  you — do  you 
hear?" 

"  Yes,  massa." 

"  Pay  attention,  then! — find  the  left  eye  of  the  skull." 

"  Hum!  hoo!  dat's  good!  why,  dar  aint  no  eye  lef  at 
30  all." 

"  Curse  your  stupidity !  do  you  know  your  right  hand 
from  your  left  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  nose  dat — nose  all  bout  dat — 'tis  my  lef  hand 
what  I  chops  de  wood  wid." 


The  Gold-Bug  159 

"  To  be  sure !  you  are  left-handed ;  and  your  left  eye 
is  on  the  same  side  as  your  left  hand.  Now,  I  suppose,  you 
can  find  the  left  eye  of  the  skull,  or  the  place  where  the 
left  eye  has  been.  Have  you  found  it?" 

Here  was  a  long  pause.     At  length  the  negro  asked,  5 

"  Is  de  lef  eye  of  de  skull  pon  de  same  side  as  de  lef 
hand  of  de  skull,  too  ? — cause  de  skull  aint  got  not  a  bit 
ob  a  hand  at  all — nebber  mind !  I  got  de  lef  eye  now — here 
de  lef  eye!  what  mus  do  wid  it?" 

"  Let  the  beetle  drop  through  it,  as  far  as  the  string  10 
will  reach — but  be  careful  and  not  let  go  your  hold  of 
the  string." 

"All  dat  done,  Massa  Will;  mighty  easy  ting  for 
to  put  de  bug  fru  de  hole — look  out  for  him  dar 
below!"  15 

During  this  colloquy  no  portion  of  Jupiter's  person 
could  be  seen;  but  the  beetle,  which  he  had  suffered  to 
descend,  was  now  visible  at  the  end  of  the  string,  and 
glistened,  like  a  globe  of  burnished  gold,  in  the  last  rays 
of  the  setting  sun,  some  of  which  still  faintly  illumined  the  20 
eminence  upon  which  we  stood.  The  scarabaus  hung 
quite  clear  of  any  branches,  and,  if  allowed  to  fall,  would 
have  fallen  at  our  feet.  Legrand  immediately  took  the 
scythe,  and  cleared  with  it  a  circular  space,  three  or  four 
yards  in  diameter,  just  beneath  the  insect,  and,  having  25 
accomplished  this,  ordered  Jupiter  to  let  go  the  string 
and  come  down  from  the  tree. 

Driving  a  peg,  with  great  nicety,  into  the  ground,  at 
the  precise  spot  where  the  beetle  fell,  my  friend  now  pro- 
duced from  his  pocket  a  tape-measure.  Fastening  one  end  30 
of  this  at  that  point  of  the  trunk  of  the  tree  which  was 
nearest  the  peg,  he  unrolled  it  till  it  reached  the  peg, 
and  thence  farther  unrolled  it,  in  the  direction  already 
established  by  the  two  points  of  the  tree  and  the  peg, 


160  The  Short  Story 

for  the  distance  of  fifty  feet — Jupiter  clearing  away  the 
brambles  with  the  scythe.  At  the  spot  thus  attained  a 
second  peg  was  driven,  and  about  this,  as  a  center,  a  rude 
circle,  about  four  feet  in  diameter,  described.  Taking 
5  now  a  spade  himself,  and  giving  one  to  Jupiter  and  one 
to  me,  Legrand  begged  us  to  set  about  digging  as  quickly 
as  possible. 

To  speak  the  truth,  I  had  no  especial  relish  for  such 
amusement  at  any  time,  and,  at  that  particular  moment, 

10  would  most  willingly  have  declined  it ;  for  the  night  was 
coming  on,  and  I  felt  much  fatigued  with  the  exercise 
already  taken ;  but  I  saw  no  mode  of  escape,  and  was 
fearful  of  disturbing  my  poor  friend's  equanimity  by  a 
refusal.  Could  I  have  depended,  indeed,  upon  Jupiter's 

15  aid,  I  would  have  had  no  hesitation  in  attempting  to  get 
the  lunatic  home  by  force;  but  I  was  too  well  assured 
of  the  old  negro's  disposition  to  hope  that  he  would  as- 
sist me,  under  any  circumstances,  in  a  personal  contest 
with  his  master.  I  made  no  doubt  that  the  latter  had 

20  been  infected  with  some  of  the  innumerable  Southern 
superstitions  about  money  buried,  and  that  his  fantasy 
had  received  confirmation  by  the  finding  of  the  scarabaus, 
or,  perhaps,  by  Jupiter's  obstinacy  in  maintaining  it  to  be 
"  a  bug  of  real  gold."  A  mind  disposed  to  lunacy  would 

25  readily  be  led  away  by  such  suggestions,  especially  if 
chiming  in  with  favorite  preconceived  ideas ;  and  then  I 
called  to  mind  the  poor  fellow's  speech  about  the  beetle's 
being  "  the  index  of  his  fortune."  Upon  the  whole,  I 
was  sadly  vexed  and  puzzled,  but  at  length  I  concluded 

30  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity — to  dig  with  a  good  will, 
and  thus  the  sooner  to  convince  the  visionary,  by  ocular 
demonstration,  of  the  fallacy  of  the  opinions  he  enter- 
tained. 

The  lanterns  having  been  lit,  we  all  fell  to  work  with  a. 


The  Gold-Bug  161 

zeal  worthy  a  more  rational  cause;  and,  as  the  glare  fell 
upon  our  persons  and  implements,  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing how  picturesque  a  group  we  composed,  and  how 
strange  and  suspicious  our  labors  must  have  appeared  to 
any  interloper  who,  by  chance,  might  have  stumbled  upon  5 
our  whereabouts. 

We  dug  very  steadily  for  two  hours.  Little  was  said ; 
and  our  chief  embarrassment  lay  in  the  yelpings  of  the 
dog,  who  took  exceeding  interest  in  our  proceedings.  He, 
at  length,  became  so  obstreperous  that  we  grew  fear-  10 
ful  of  his  giving  the  alarm  to  some  stragglers  in  the 
vicinity ;  or,  rather,  this  was  the  apprehension  of  Legrand ; 
for  myself,  I  should  have  rejoiced  at  any  interruption 
which  might  have  enabled  me  to  get  the  wanderer  home. 
The  noise  was,  at  length,  very  effectually  silenced  by  15 
Jupiter,  who,  getting  out  of  the  hole  with  a  dogged  air 
of  deliberation,  tied  the  brute's  mouth  up  with  one  of  his 
suspenders,  and  then  returned,  with  a  grave  chuckle,  to 
his  task.  • 

When  the  time  mentioned  had  expired,  we  had  reached  20 
a  depth  of  five  feet,  and  yet  no  signs  of  any  treasure  be- 
came manifest.     A  general  pause  ensued,  and  I  began  to 
hope  that  the  farce  was  at  an  end.     Legrand,  however, 
although   evidently   much   disconcerted,   wiped   his   brow 
thoughtfully  and  recommenced.     We  had  excavated  the  25 
entire  circle  of  four  feet  diameter,  and  now  we  slightly  en- 
larged the  limit,  and  went  to  the  farther  depth  of  two  feet. 
Still  nothing  appeared.     The  gold-seeker,  whom  I  sincerely 
pitied,  at  length  clambered   from  the  pit,  with   the  bit- 
terest disappointment  imprinted  upon  every  feature,  and  30 
proceeded,   slowly   and    reluctantly,   to   put   on   his  coat, 
which  he  had  thrown  of?  at  the  beginning  of  his  labor. 
In  the  meantime  I  made  no  remark.     Jupiter,  at  a  signal 
from   his   master,   began    to   gather   up   his  tools.     This 


1 62  The  Short  Story 

done,  and  the  dog  having  been  unmuzzled,  we  turned  in 
profound  silence  towards  home. 

We  had  taken,  perhaps,  a  dozen  steps  in  this  direc- 
tion, when,  with  a  loud  oath,  Legrand  strode  up  to  Jupi- 
5  ter,  and  seized  him  by  the  collar.    The  astonished  negro 
opened  his  eyes  and  mouth  to  the  fullest  extent,  let  fall 
the  spades,  and  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"  You  scoundrel,"  said  Legrand,  hissing  out  the  syl- 
lables  from   between   his  clinched   teeth — "  you   infernal 
10  black   villain ! — speak,    I   tell   you ! — answer  me   this  in- 
stant, without  prevarication! — which — which  is  your  left 
eye?'.' 

"  Oh,  my  golly,   Massa  Will !   aint   dis  here  my  lef 

eye   for   sartain  ? "   roared   the   terrified   Jupiter,   placing 

15  his  hand  upon  his  right  organ  of  vision,  and  holding  it 

there  with   a  desperate   pertinacity,   as   if   in   immediate 

dread  of  his  master's  attempt  at  a  gouge. 

"  I  thought  so! — I  knew  it!  hurrah!  "  vociferated  Le- 
grand, letting  the  negro  go,  and  executing  a  series  of 
20  curvets  and  caracoles,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  his 
valet,  who,  arising  from  his  knees,  looked  mutely  from 
his  master  to  myself,  and  then  from  myself  to  his 
master. 

"Come!    we   must    go   back,"   said    the   latter,    "the 
25  game's  not  up  yet;"  and  he  again  led  the  way  to  the 
tulip-tree. 

"  Jupiter,"  said  he,  when  we  reached  its  foot,  "  come 
here!  was  the  skull  nailed  to  the  limb  with  the  face  out- 
ward, or  with  the  face  to  the  limb  ?  " 

30       "  De  face  was  out,  massa,  so  dat  de  crows  could  get 
at  de  eyes  good,  widout  any  trouble." 

"  Well,  then,  was  it  this  eye  or  that  through  which 
you  dropped  the  beetle?  " — here  Legrand  touched  each  of 
Jupiter's  eyes. 


The  Gold-Bug  163 

'  'Twas  dis  eye,  massa — de  lef  eye — jis  as  you  tell  me," 
and  here  it  was  his  right  eye  that  the  negro  indicated. 

"  That  will  do — we  must  try  it  again." 

Here  my  friend,  about  whose  madness  I  now  saw,  or 
fancied   that   I    saw,   certain    indications   of   method,    re-  5 
moved  the  peg  which  marked  the  spot  where  the  beetle 
fell,  to  a  spot  about  three  inches  to  the  westward  of  its 
former  position.    Taking,  now,  the  tape-measure  from  the 
nearest  point  of  the  trunk  to  the  peg,  as  before,  and  con- 
tinuing the  extension  in  a  straight  line  to  the  distance  of  10 
fifty  feet,  a  spot  was  indicated,  removed,  by  several  yards, 
from  the  point  at  which  we  had  been  digging. 

Around  the  new  position  a  circle,  somewhat  larger 
than  in  the  former  instance,  was  now  described,  and  we 
again  set  to  work  with  the  spades.  I  was  dreadfully  15 
weary,  but,  scarcely  understanding  what  had  occasioned 
the  change  in  my  thoughts,  I  felt  no  longer  any  great 
aversion  from  the  labor  imposed.  I  had  become  most 
unaccountably  interested — nay,  even  excited.  Perhaps 
there  was  something,  amid  all  the  extravagant  demeanor  20 
of  Legrand — some  air  of  forethought,  or  of  deliberation — 
which  impressed  me.  I  dug  eagerly,  and  now  and  then 
caught  myself  actually  looking,  with  something  that  very 
much  resembled  expectation,  for  the  fancied  treasure,  the 
vision  of  which  had  demented  my  unfortunate  companion.  25 
At  a  period  when  such  vagaries  of  thought  most  fully 
possessed  me,  and  when  we  had  been  at  work  perhaps  an 
hour  and  a  half,  we  were  again  interrupted  by  the  violent 
bowlings  of  the  dog.  His  uneasiness,  in  the  first  instance, 
had  been  evidently  but  the  result  of  playfulness  or  caprice,  30 
but  he  now  assumed  a  bitter  and  serious  tone.  Upon 
Jupiter's  again  attempting  to  muzzle  him,  he  made  furi- 
ous resistance,  and,  leaping  into  the  hole,  tore  up  the 
mold  frantically  with  his  claws.  In  a  few  seconds  he  had 


164  The  Short  Story 

uncovered  a  mass  of  human  bones,  forming  two  complete 
skeletons,  intermingled  with  several  buttons  of  metal, 
and  what  appeared  to  be  the  dust  of  decayed  woolen. 
One  or  two  strokes  of  a  spade  upturned  the  blade  of  a 
5  large  Spanish  knife,  and,  as  we  dug  farther,  three  or  four 
loose  pieces  of  gold  and  silver  coin  came  to  light. 

At  sight  of  these  the  joy  of  Jupiter  could  scarcely  be 
restrained,  but  the  countenance  of  his  master  wore  an  air 
of  extreme  disappointment.  He  urged  us,  however,  to 

10  continue  our  exertions,  and  the  words  were  hardly  uttered 
when  I  stumbled  and  fell  forward,  having  caught  the  toe 
of  my  boot  in  a  large  ring  of  iron  that  lay  half  buried 
in  the  loose  earth. 

We  now  worked  in  earnest,  and  never  did  I  pass  ten 

15  minutes  of  more  intense  excitement.  During  this  interval 
we  had  fairly  unearthed  an  oblong  chest  of  wood,  which, 
from  its  perfect  preservation  and  wonderful  hardness,  had 
plainly  been  subjected  to  some  mineralizing  process — per- 
haps that  of  the  bichloride  of  mercury.  This  box  was  three 

20  feet  and  a  half  long,  three  feet  broad,  and  two  and  a  half 
feet  deep.  It  was  firmly  secured  by  bands  of  wrought  iron, 
riveted,  and  forming  a  kind  of  trellis-work  over  the  whole. 
On  each  side  of  the  chest,  near  the  top,  were  three  rings  of 
iron — six  in  all — by  means  of  which  a  firm  hold  could  be 

25  obtained  by  six  persons.  Our  utmost  united  endeavors 
served  only  to  disturb  the  coffer  very  slightly  in  its  bed. 
We  at  once  saw  the  impossibility  of  removing  so  great  a 
weight.  Luckily,  the  sole  fastenings  of  the  lid  consisted 
of  two  sliding  bolts.  These  we  drew  back — trembling  and 

30  panting  with  anxiety.  In  an  instant,  a  treasure  of  incal- 
culable value  lay  gleaming  before  us.  As  the  rays  of 
the  lanterns  fell  within  the  pit,  there  flashed  upwards, 
from  a  confused  heap  of  gold  and  of  jewrels,  a  glow  and  a 
glare  that  absolutely  dazzled  our  eyes. 


The  Gold-Bug  165 

I  shall  not  pretend  to  describe  the  feelings  with  which 
I  gazed.  Amazement  was,  of  course,  predominant.  Le- 
grand  appeared  exhausted  with  excitement,  and  spoke 
very  few  words.  Jupiter's  countenance  wore,  for  some 
minutes,  as  deadly  a  pallor  as  it  is  possible,  in  the  nature  5 
of  things,  for  any  negro's  visage  to  assume.  He  seemed 
stupefied — thunderstricken.  Presently  he  fell  upon  his 
knees  in  the  pit,  and,  burying  his  naked  arms  up  to  the 
elbows  in  gold,  let  them  there  remain,  as  if  enjoying  the 
luxury  of  a  bath.  At  length,  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  ex-  10 
claimed,  as  if  in  a  soliloquy: 

"And  dis  all  cum  ob  de  goole-bug!  de  putty  goole- 
bug!  de  poor  little  goole-bug,  what  I  boosed  in  dat  sabage 
kind  ob  style!  Ain't  you  shamed  ob  yourself,  nigger? — 
answer  me  dat!  "  15 

It  became  necessary,  at  last,  that  I  should  arouse  both 
master  and  valet  to  the  expediency  of  removing  the  treas- 
ure. It  was  growing  late,  and  it  behooved  us  to  make 
exertion,  that  we  might  get  everything  housed  before  day- 
light. It  was  difficult  to  say  what  should  be  done,  and  20 
much  time  was  spent  in  deliberation — so  confused  were 
the  ideas  of  all.  We  finally  lightened  the  box  by  remov- 
ing two-thirds  of  its  contents,  when  we  were  enabled,  with 
some  trouble,  to  raise  it  from  the  hole.  The  articles  taken 
out  were  deposited  among  the  brambles,  and  the  dog  left  25 
to  guard  them,  with  strict  orders  from  Jupiter  neither, 
upon  any  pretense,'  to  stir  from  the  spot,  nor  to  open  his 
mouth  until  our  return.  We  then  hurriedly  made  for 
home  with  the  chest;  reaching  the  hut  in  safety,  but  after 
excessive  toil,  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Worn  out  30 
as  we  were,  it  was  not  in  human  nature  to  do  more  just 
now.  We  rested  until  two,  and  had  supper;  starting 
for  the  hills  immediately  afterwards,  armed  with  three 
stout  sacks,  which  by  good  luck  were  upon  the  premises. 


1 66  The  Short  Story 

A  little  before  four  we  arrived  at  the  pit,  divided  the 
remainder  of  the  booty,  as  equally  as  might  be,  among  us, 
and,  leaving  the  holes  unfilled,  again  set  out  for  the  hut, 
at  which,  for  the  second  time,  we  deposited  our  golden 
5  burdens,  just  as  the  first  streaks  of  the  dawn  gleamed  from 
over  the  treetops  in  the  east. 

We  were  now  thoroughly  broken  down;  but  the  in- 
tense excitement  of  the  time  denied  us  repose.  After  an 
unquiet  slumber  of  some  three  or  four  hours'  duration,  we 

10  arose,  as  if  by  preconcert,  to  make  examination  of  our 
treasure. 

The  chest  had  been  full  to  the  brim,  and  we  spent  the 
whole  day,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  next  night,  in  a 
scrutiny  of  its  contents.  There  had  been  nothing  like 

15  order  or  arrangement.  Everything  had  been  heaped  in 
promiscuously.  Having  assorted  all  with  care,  we  found 
ourselves  possessed  of  even  vaster  wealth  than  we  had  at 
first  supposed.  In  coin  there  was  rather  more  than  four 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars:  estimating  the  value 

20  of  the  pieces,  as  accurately  as  we  could,  by  the  tables  of 
the  period.  There  was  not  a  particle  of  silver.  All  was 
gold  of  antique  date  and  of  great  variety:  French,  Span- 
ish, and  German  money,  with  a  few  English  guineas, 
and  some  counters,  of  which  we  had  never  seen  specimens 

25  before.  There  were  several  very  large  and  heavy  coins, 
so  worn  that  we  could  make  nothing  of  their  inscriptions. 
There  was  no  American  money.  The  value  of  the  jewels 
we  found  more  difficulty  in  estimating.  There  were  dia- 
monds— some  of  them  exceedingly  large  and  fine — a  hun- 

30  dred  and  ten  in  all,  and  not  one  of  them  small ;  eighteen 
rubies  of  remarkable  brilliancy;  three  hundred  and  ten 
emeralds,  all  very  beautiful ;  and  twenty-one  sapphires, 
with  an  opal.  These  stones  had  all  been  broken  from  their 
settings,  and  thrown  loose  in  the  chest.  The  settings 


The  Gold-Bug  167 

themselves,  which  we  picked  out  from  among  the  other 
gold,  appeared  to  have  been  beaten  up  with  hammers,  as 
if  to  prevent  identification.  Besides  all  this,  there  was  a 
vast  quantity  of  solid  gold  ornaments:  nearly  two  hun- 
dred massive  finger  and  ear  rings;  rich  chains — thirty  5 
of  these,  if  I  remember ;  eighty-three  very  large  and  heavy 
crucifixes;  five  gold  censers  of  great  value;  a  prodigious 
golden  punch-bowl,  ornamented  with  richly  chased  vine- 
leaves  and  Bacchanalian  figures;  with  two  sword-handles 
exquisitely  embossed,  and  many  other  smaller  articles  10 
which  I  cannot  recollect.  The  weight  of  these  valuables 
exceeded  three  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  avoirdupois;  and 
in  this  estimate  I  have  not  included  one  hundred  and 
ninety-seven  superb  gold  watches;  three  of  the  number 
being  worth  each  five  hundred  dollars,  if  one.  Many  of  15 
them  were  very  old,  and  as  timekeepers  valueless,  the 
works  having  suffered  more  or  less  from  corrosion ;  but 
all  were  richly  jeweled  and  in  cases  of  great  worth. 
We  estimated  the  entire  contents  of  the  chest,  that  night, 
at  a  million  and  a  half  of  dollars;  and,  upon  the  subse-  20 
quent  disposal  of  the  trinkets  and  jewels  (a  few  being  re- 
tained for  our  own  use),  it  was  found  that  we  had  greatly 
undervalued  the  treasure. 

When,  at  length,  we  had  concluded  our  examination, 
and  the  intense  excitement  of  the  time  had  in  some  meas-  25 
ure  subsided,  Legrand,  who  saw  that  I  was  dying  with 
impatience  for  a  solution  of  this  most  extraordinary  rid- 
dle, entered  into  a  full  detail  of  all  the  circumstances  con- 
nected with  it. 

"  You  remember,"  said  he,  "  the  night  when  I  handed  30 
you  the  rough  sketch  I  had  made  of  the  scarabeeus.    You 
recollect  also,  that  I  became  quite  vexed  at  you  for  in- 
sisting that  my  drawing  resembled  a  death's-head.    When 
you  first  made  this  assertion  I  thought  you  were  jesting; 


1 68  The  Short  Story 

but  afterwards  I  called  to  mind  the  peculiar  spots  on  the 
back  of  the  insect,  and  admitted  to  myself  that  your  re- 
mark had  some  little  foundation  in  fact.  Still,  the  sneer 
at  my  graphic  powers  irritated  me — for  I  am  considered 

5  a  good  artist — and,  therefore,  when  you  handed  me  the 
scrap  of  parchment,  I  was  about  to  crumple  it  up  and 
throw  it  angrily  into  the  fire." 

"  The  scrap  of  paper,  you  mean,"  said  I. 

"  No:  it  had  much  of  the  appearance  of  paper,  and  at 

10  first  I  supposed  it  to  be  such,  but  when  I  came  to*  draw 
upon  it,  I  discovered  it,  at  once,  to  be  a  piece  of  very 
thin  parchment.  It  was  quite  dirty,  you  remember. 
Well,  as  I  was  in  the  very  act  of  crumpling  it  up,  my 
glance  fell  upon  the  sketch  at  which  you  had  been  look- 

15  ing,  and  you  may  imagine  my  astonishment  when  I  per- 
ceived, in  fact,  the  figure  of  a  death's-head  just  where, 
it  seemed  to  me,  I  had  made  the  drawing  of  the  beetle. 
For  a  moment  I  was  too  much  amazed  to  think  with 
accuracy.  I  knew  that  my  design  was  very  different  in 

20  detail  from  this — although  there  was  a  certain  similarity 
in  general  outline.  Presently  I  took  a  candle  and,  seating 
myself  at  the  other  side  of  the  room,  proceeded  to  scruti- 
nize the  parchment  more  closely.  Upon  turning  it  over,  I 
saw  my  own  sketch  upon  the  reverse,  just  as  I  had  made  it. 

25  My  first  idea,  now,  was  mere  surprise  at  the  really  re- 
markable similarity  of  outline — at  the  singular  coincidence 
involved  in  the  fact  that,  unknown  to  me,  there  should 
have  been  a  skull  upon  the  other  side  of  the  parchment, 
immediately  beneath  my  figure  of  the  scarabceus,  and  that 

30  this  skull,  not  only  in  outline,  but  in  size,  should  so 
closely  resemble  my  drawing.  I  say  the  singularity  of 
this  coincidence  absolutely  stupefied  me  for  a  time.  This 
is  the  usual  effect  of  such  coincidences.  The  mind 
struggles  to  establish  a  connection — a  sequence  of  cause  and 


The  Gold-Bug  169 

effect — and,  being  unable  to  do  so,  suffers  a  species  of  tem- 
porary paralysis.  But,  when  I  recovered  from  this  stupor, 
there  dawned  upon  me  gradually  a  conviction  which 
startled  me  even  far  more  than  the  coincidence.  I  began 
distinctly,  positively,  to  remember  that  there  had  been  5 
no  drawing  on  the  parchment  when  I  made  my  sketch  of 
the  scarabefus.  I  became  perfectly  certain  of  this;  for  I 
recollected  turning  up  first  one  side  and  then  the  other,  in 
search  of  the  cleanest  spot.  Had  the  skull  been  then  there, 
of  course  I  could  not  have  failed  to  notice  it.  Here  was  10 
indeed  a  mystery  which  I  felt  it  impossible  to  explain; 
but,  even  at  that  early  moment,  there  seemed  to  glimmer, 
faintly,  within  the  most  remote  and  secret  chambers  of  my 
intellect,  a  glow-worm-like  conception  of  that  truth  which 
last  night's  adventure  brought  to  so  magnificent  a  demon-  15 
stration.  I  arose  at  once,  and,  putting  the  parchment 
securely  away,  dismissed  all  farther  reflection  until  I 
should  be  alone. 

"  When  you  had  gone,  and  when  Jupiter  was  fast 
asleep,  I  betook  myself  to  a  more  methodical  investiga-  20 
tion  of  the  affair.  In  the  first  place  I  considered  the 
manner  in  which  the  parchment  had  come  into  my  pos- 
session. The  spot  where  we  discovered  the  scarab<eus 
was  on  the  coast  of  the  mainland,  about  a  mile  east- 
ward of  the  island,  and  but  a  short  distance  above  high-  25 
water  mark.  Upon  my  taking  hold  of  it,  it  gave  me  a 
sharp  bite,  which  caused  me  to  let  it  drop.  Jupiter,  with 
his  accustomed  caution,  before  seizing  the  insect,  which 
had  flown  towards  him,  looked  about  him  for  a  leaf,  or 
something  of  that  nature,  by  which  to  take  hold  of  it.  30 
It  was  at  this  moment  that  his  eyes,  and  mine  also,  fell 
upon  the  scrap  of  parchment,  which  I  then  supposed  to  be 
paper.  It  was  lying  half-buried  in  the  sand,  a  corner 
sticking  up.  Near  the  spot  where  we  found  it,  I  observed 


170  The  Short  Story 

the  remnants  of  the  hull  of  what  appeared  to  have  been 
a  ship's  long  boat.  The  wreck  seemed  to  have  been 
there  for  a  very  great  while;  for  the  resemblance  to  boat 
timbers  could  scarcely  be  traced. 

5  "  Well,  Jupiter  picked  up  the  parchment,  wrapped  the 
beetle  in  it,  and  gave  it  to  me.  Soon  afterwards  we 
turned  to  go  home,  and  on  the  way  met  Lieutenant 

G .     I  showed  him  the  insect,  and  he  begged  me  to 

let  him  take  it  to  the  fort.    On  my  consenting,  he  thrust 

10  it  forthwith  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  without  the  parch- 
ment in  which  it  had  been  wrapped,  and  which  I  had 
continued  to  hold  in  my  hand  during  his  inspection.  Per- 
haps he  dreaded  my  changing  my  mind,  and  thought  it 
best  to  make  sure  of  the  prize  at  once — you  know  how 

15  enthusiastic  he  is  on  all  subjects  connected  with  Natural 

History.    At  the  same  time,  without  being  conscious  of  it, 

I  must  have  deposited  the  parchment  in  my  own  pocket. 

"  You  remember  that  when  I  went  to  the  table,  for 

the  purpose  of  making  a  sketch  of  the  beetle,  I  found  no 

20  paper  where  it  was  usually  kept.  I  looked  in  the  drawer, 
and  found  none  there.  I  searched  my  pockets,  hoping  to 
find  an  old  letter,  and  then  my  hand  fell  upon  the  parch- 
ment. I  thus  detail  the  precise  mode  in  which  it  came 
into  my  possession;  for  the  circumstances  impressed  me 

25  with  peculiar  force. 

"  No  doubt  you  will  think  me  fanciful — but  I  had 
already  established  a  kind  of  connection.  I  had  put  to- 
gether two  links  of  a  great  chain.  There  was  a  boat 
lying  on  a  seacoast,  and  not  far  from  the  boat  was  a 

30  parchment — not  a  paper — with  a  skull  depicted  on  it. 
You  will,  of  course,  ask  'where  is  the  connection?'  I 
reply  that  the  skull,  or  death's-head,  is  the  well-known 
emblem  of  the  pirate.  The  flag  of  the  death's-head  is 
hoisted  in  all  engagements. 


The  Gold-Bug  171 

"  I  have  said  that  the  scrap  was  parchment,  and 
not  paper.  Parchment  is  durable — almost  imperishable. 
Matters  of  little  moment  are  rarely  consigned  to  parch- 
ment; since,  for  the  mere  ordinary  purposes  of  drawing 
or  writing,  it  is  not  nearly  so  well  adapted  as  paper.  5 
This  reflection  suggested  some  meaning — some  relevancy 
— in  the  death's-head.  I  did  not  fail  to  observe,  also, 
the  form  of  the  parchment.  Although  one  of  its  corners 
had  been,  by  some  accident,  destroyed,  it  could  be  seen 
that  the  original  form  was  oblong.  It  was  just  such  a  10 
slip,  indeed,  as  might  have  been  chosen  for  a  memoran- 
dum— for  a  record  of  something  to  be  long  remembered 
and  carefully  preserved." 

"  But,"  I  interposed,  "  you  say  that  the  skull  was  not 
upon  the  parchment  when  you  made  the  drawing  of  the  15 
beetle.  How  then  do  you  trace  any  connection  between 
the  boat  and  the  skull — since  this  latter,  according  to 
your  own  admission,  must  have  been  designed  (God  only 
knows  how  or  by  whom)  at  some  period  subsequent  to 
your  sketching  the  scarab&us?  "  20 

"Ah,  hereupon  turns  the  whole  mystery;  although 
the  secret,  at  this  point,  I  had  comparatively  little  diffi- 
culty in  solving.  My  steps  were  sure,  and  could  afford 
but  a  single  result.  I  reasoned,  for  example,  thus:  When 
I  drew  the  scarabaus,  there  was  no  skull  apparent  on  the  25 
parchment.  When  I  had  completed  the  drawing  I  gave 
it  to  you,  and  observed  you  narrowly  until  you  returned 
it.  You,  therefore,  did  not  design  the  skull,  and  no  one 
else  was  present  to  do  it.  Then  it  was  not  done  by  human 
agency.  And  nevertheless  it  was  done.  30 

"  At  this  stage  of  my  reflections  I  endeavored  to  re- 
member, and  did  remember,  with  entire  distinctness,  every 
incident  which  occurred  about  the  period  in  question.  The 
weather  was  chilly  (O  rare  and  happy  accident!),  and 


172  The  Short  Story 

a  fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth.  I  was  heated  with 
exercise  and  sat  near  the  table.  You,  however,  had  drawn 
a  chair  close  to  the  chimney.  Just  as  I  placed  the  parch- 
ment in  your  hand,  and  as  you  were  in  the  act  of  inspect- 
5  ing  it,  Wolf,  the  Newfoundland,  entered,  and  leaped 
upon  your  shoulders.  With  your  left  hand  you  caressed 
him  and  kept  him  off,  while  your  right,  holding  the 
parchment,  was  permitted  to  fall  listlessly  between  your 
knees,  and  in  close  proximity  to  the  fire.  At  one  mo- 

10  ment  I  thought  the  blaze  had  caught  it,  and  was  about 
to  caution  you,  but,  before  I  could  speak,  you  had  with- 
drawn it,  and  were  engaged  in  its  examination.  When  I 
considered  all  these  particulars,  I  doubted  not  for  a 
moment  that  heat  had  been  the  agent  in  bringing  to  light, 

15  on  the  parchment,  the  skull  which  I  saw  designed  on  it. 
You  are  well  aware  that  chemical  preparations  exist,  and 
have  existed  time  out  of  mind,  by  means  of  which  it  is 
possible  to  write  on  either  paper  or  vellum,  so  that  the 
characters  shall  become  visible  only  when  subjected  to  the 

20  action  of  fire.  Zaffer,  digested  in  aqua  reg'ia,  and  diluted 
with  four  times  its  weight  of  water,  is  sometimes  em- 
ployed; a  green  tint  results.  The  regulus  of  cobalt,  dis- 
solved in  spirit  of  niter,  gives  a  red.  These  colors  dis- 
appear at  longer  or  shorter  intervals  after  the  material 

25  written  upon  cools,  but  again  become  apparent  upon  the 
re-application  of  heat. 

"  I  now  scrutinized  the  death's-head  with  care.  Its 
outer  edges — the  edges  of  the  drawing  nearest  the  edge 
of  the  vellum — were  far  more  distinct  than  the  others. 

30  It  was  clear  that  the  action  of  the  caloric  had  been  im- 
perfect or  unequal.  I  immediately  kindled  a  fire,  and 
subjected  every  portion  of  the  parchment  to  a  glowing 
heat.  At  first,  the  only  effect  was  the  strengthening  of 
the  faint  lines  in  the  skull;  but,  on  persevering  in  the 


The  Gold-Bug  173 

experiment,  there  became  visible  at  the  corner  of  the 
slip,  diagonally  opposite  to  the  spot  in  which  the  death's- 
head  was  delineated,  the  figure  of  what  I  at  first  sup- 
posed to  be  a  goat.  A  closer  scrutiny,  however,  satisfied 
me  that  it  was  intended  for  a  kid."  5 

"Ha!  ha!"  said  I,  "to  be  sure  I  have  no  right  to 
laugh  at  you — a  million  and  a  half  of  money  is  too  seri- 
ous a  matter  for  mirth — but  you  are  not  about  to  estab- 
lish a  third  link  in  your  chain:  you  will  not  find  any 
especial  connection  between  your  pirates  and  a  goat;  pi-  10 
rates,  you  know,  have  nothing  to  do  with  goats;  they 
appertain  to  the  farming  interest." 

"  But  I  have  just  said  that  the  figure  was  not  that  of 
a  goat." 

"  Well,  a  kid,  then — pretty  much  the  same  thing."          15 

"  Pretty  much,  but  not  altogether,"  said  Legrand. 
"  You  may  have  heard  of  one  Captain  Kidd.  I  at  once 
looked  on  the  figure  of  the  animal  as  a  kind  of  punning  or 
hieroglyphical  signature.  I  say  signature;  because  its 
position  on  the  vellum  suggested  this  idea.  The  death's-  20 
head  at  the  corner  diagonally  opposite  had,  in  the  same 
manner,  the  air  of  a  stamp,  or  seal.  But  I  was  sorely 
put  out  by  the  absence  of  all  else — of  the  body  to  my 
imagined  instrument — of  the  text  for  my  context." 

"  I  presume  you  expected  to  find  a  letter  between  the  25 
stamp  and  the  signature." 

"  Something  of  that  kind.  The  fact  is,  I  felt  irresist- 
ibly impressed  with  a  presentiment  of  some  vast  good 
fortune  impending.  I  can  scarcely  say  why.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  it  was  rather  a  desire  than  an  actual  belief; —  30 
but  do  you  know  that  Jupiter's  silly  words,  about  the  bug 
being  of  solid  gold,  had  a  remarkable  effect  on  my  fancy? 
And  then  the  series  of  accidents  and  coincidences — these 
were  so  very  extraordinary.  Do  you  observe  how  mere 


174  The  Short  Story 

an  accident  it  was  that  these  events  should  have  oc- 
curred on  the  sole  day  of  all  the  year  in  which  it  has  been, 
or  may  be,  sufficiently  cool  for  fire,  and  that  without  the 
fire,  or  without  the  intervention  of  the  dog  at  the  precise 

5  moment  in  which  he  appeared,  I  should  never  have  be- 
come aware  of  the  death's-head,  and  so  never  the  pos- 
sessor of  the  treasure?" 

"  But  proceed — I  am  all  impatience." 

"Well;  you  have  heard,  of  course,  the  many  stories 

10  current — the  thousand  vague  rumors  afloat  about  money 
buried,  somewhere  on  the  Atlantic  coast,  by  Kidd  and 
his  associates.  These  rumors  must  have  had  some  founda- 
tion in  fact.  And  that  the  rumors  have  existed  so  long 
and  so  continuously,  could  have  resulted,  it  appeared  to 

15  me,  only  from  the  circumstance  of  the  buried  treasure  still 
remaining  entombed.  Had  Kidd  concealed  his  plunder 
for  a  time,  and  afterwards  reclaimed  it,  the  rumors 
would  scarcely  have  reached  us  in  their  present  unvarying 
form.  You  will  observe  that  the  stories  told  are  all 

20  about  money-seekers,  not  about  money-finders.  Had  the 
pirate  recovered  his  money,  there  the  affair  would  have 
dropped.  It  seemed  to  me  that  some  accident — say  the 
loss  of  a  memorandum  indicating  its  locality — had  de- 
prived him  of  the  means  of  recovering  it,  and  that  this 

25  accident  had  become  known  to  his  followers,  who  other- 
wise might  never  have  heard  that  treasure  had  been  con- 
cealed at  all,  and  who,  busying  themselves  in  vain,  be- 
cause unguided,  attempts  to  regain  it,  had  given  first 
birth,  and  then  universal  currency,  to  the  reports  which  are 

30  now  so  common.     Have  you  ever  heard  of  any  important 
treasure  being  unearthed  along  the  coast?" 
"  Never." 

"  But  that  Kidd's  accumulations  were  immense  is  well 
known.     I  took  it  for  granted,  therefore,  that  the  earth 


The  Gold-Bug  175 

still  held  them;  and  you  will  scarcely  be  surprised  when 
I  tell  you  that  I  felt  a  hope,  nearly  amounting  to  cer- 
tainty, that  the  parchment  so  strangely  found  involved  a 
lost  record  of  the  place  of  deposit." 

"  But  how  did  you  proceed  ?  "  5 

"  I  held  the  vellum  again  to  the  fire,  after  increasing 
the  heat,  but  nothing  appeared.  I  now  thought  it  pos- 
sible that  the  coating  of  dirt  might  have  something  to  do 
with  the  failure,  so  I  carefully"rinsed  the  parchment  by 
pouring  warm  water  over  it,  and,  having  done  this,  I  10 
placed  it  in  a  tin  pan,  with  the  skull  downwards,  and  put 
the  pan  upon  a  furnace  of  lighted  charcoal.  In  a  few 
minutes,  the  pan  having  become  thoroughly  heated,  I  re- 
moved the  slip,  and,  to  my  inexpressible  joy,  found  it 
spotted,  in  several  places,  with  what  appeared  to  be  15 
figures  arranged  in  lines.  Again  I  placed  it  in  the  pan, 
and  suffered  it  to  remain  another  minute.  Upon  taking  it 
off,  the  whole  was  just  as  you  see  it  now." 

Here  Legrand,  having  reheated  the  parchment,   sub- 
mitted it  to  my   inspection.     The   following  characters  20 
were  rudely  traced,  in  a  red  tint,  between  the  death's-head 
and  the  goat: — 

53$$t305))6*;4826)4t.)4t);806*;48t8*[60))85;;]8*;:t*8t83(88)5*t; 
•  46{  ;88*96*?;8)*J(  ;435);5*t2:*t(;4956*2(5*— 4)8^8*;  4069285)  ;)6f8) 
4tt;l($9;48081;8:8tl;48t85;4)485t528806»81(J9;48;(88;4(t?34;48)  25 
4t;161;:188;t?; 

"  But,"  said  I,  returning  him  the  slip,  "  I  am  as  much 
in  the  dark  as  ever.  Were  all  the  jewels  of  Golconda 
awaiting  me  on  my  solution  of  this  enigma,  I  am  quite 
sure  that  I  should  be  unable  to  earn  them."  30 

"  And  yet,"  said  Legrand,  "  the  solution  is  by  no 
means  so  difficult  as  you  might  be  led  to  imagine  from 
the  first  hasty  inspection  of  the  characters.  These  char- 


176  The  Short  Story 

acters,  as  any  one  might  readily  guess,  form  a  cipher — that 
is  to  say,  they  convey  a  meaning;  but  then,  from  what  is 
known  of  Kidd,  I  could  not  suppose  him  capable  of  con- 
structing any  of  the  more  abstruse  cryptographs.     I  made 
5  up  my  mind,  at  once,  that  this  was  of  a  simple  species — 
such,  however,  as  would   appear,   to  the  crude  intellect 
of  the  sailor,  absolutely  insoluble  without  the  key." 
"And  you  really  solved  it?" 
"  Readily ;    I    have    served   others   of   an    abstruseness 

10  ten  thousand  times  greater.  Circumstances,  and  a  certain 
bias  of  mind,  have  led  me  to  take  interest  in  such  riddles, 
and  it  may  well  be  doubted  whether  human  ingenuity  can 
construct  an  enigma  of  the  kind  which  human  ingenuity 
may  not,  by  proper  application,  resolve.  In  fact,  having 

15  once  established  connected  and  legible  characters,  I 
scarcely  gave  a  thought  to  the  mere  difficulty  of  develop- 
ing their  import. 

"  In   the   present  case — indeed   in   all   cases   of   secret 
writing — the  first  question   regards  the  language  of  the 

20  cipher ;  for  the  principles  of  solution,  so  far,  especially, 
as  the  more  simple  ciphers  are  concerned,  depend  on,  and 
are  varied  by,  the  genius  of  the  particular  idiom.  In 
general,  there  is  no  alternative  but  experiment  (directed 
by  probabilities)  of  every  tongue  known  to  him  who 

25  attempts  the  solution,  until  the  true  one  be  attained.  But, 
with  the  cipher  now  before  us,  all  difficulty  is  removed 
by  the  signature.  The  pun  upon  the  word  '  Kidd  '  is  ap- 
preciable in  no  other  language  than  the  English.  But  for 
this  consideration  I  should  have  begun  my  attempts  with 

30  the  Spanish  and  French,  as  the  tongues  in  which  a  secret 
of  this  kind  would  most  naturally  have  been  written  by 
a  pirate  of  the  Spanish  main.  As  it  Was,  I  assumed  the 
cryptograph  to  be  English. 

"  You  observe  there  are  no  divisions  between  the  words. 


The  Gold-Bug 


177 


Had  there  been  divisions,  the  task  would  have  been  com- 
paratively easy.  In  such  case  I  should  have  commenced 
with  a  collation  and  analysis  of  the  shorter  words,  and, 
had  a  word  of  a  single  letter  occurred,  as  is  most  likely 
(a  or  I,  for  example),  I  should  have  considered  the  solu-  5 
tion  as  assured.  But,  there  being  no  division,  my  first  step 
was  to  ascertain  the  predominant  letters,  as  well  as  the 
least  frequent.  Counting  all,  I  constructed  a  table, 
thus : 


•   8   there 

are   33 

; 

26 

4 

19 

t) 

16 

* 

13 

5 

12 

6 

II 

ti 

8 

0 

6 

92 

5 

=  3 

4 

? 

3 

11 

2 

—  . 

I 

10 


20 


"  Now,  in  English,  the  letter  which  most  frequently 
occurs  is  e.  Afterwards  the  succession  runs  thus:  a  o  i  d  h  25 
nrstuycfglmwbkpqxz.  E  predominates,  how- 
ever, so  remarkably  that  an  individual  sentence  of  any 
length  is  rarely  seen,  in  which  it  is  not  the  prevailing 
character. 

"  Here,  then,  we  have,  in  the  very  beginning,  the  30 
groundwork  for  something  more  than  a  mere  guess.  The 
general  use  which  may  be  made  of  the  table  is  obvious — 
but,  in  this  particular  cipher,  we  shall  only  very  partially 
require  its  aid.  As  our  predominant  character  is  8,  we 
will  commence  by  assuming  it  as  the  e  of  the  natural  35 


178  The  Short  Story 

alphabet.  To  verify  the  supposition,  let  us  observe  if 
the  8  be  seen  often  in  couples — for  e  is  doubled  with  great 
frequency  in  English — in  such  words,  for  example,  as 
'  meet,'  '  fleet,'  '  speed,'  '  seen,'  '  been,'  '  agree,'  etc.  In 
5  the  present  instance  we  see  it  doubled  no  less  than  five 
times,  although  the  cryptograph  is  brief. 

"  Let  us  assume  8,  then,  as  e.  Now,  of  all  words 
in  the  language,  '  the '  is  most  usual ;  let  us  see,  there- 
fore, whether  there  are  not  repetitions  of  any  three  char- 

10  acters,  in  the  same  order  of  collocation,  the  last  of  them 
being  8.  If  we  discover  repetitions  of  such  letters,  so 
arranged,  they  will  most  probably  represent  the  word 
'  the.'  On  inspection,  we  find  no  less  than  seven  such 
arrangements,  the  characters  being  548.  We  may,  there- 

15  fore,  assume  that  the  semicolon  represents  t,  that  4  repre- 
sents h,  and  that  8  represents  e — the  last  being  now  well 
confirmed.  Thus  a  great  step  has  been  taken. 

"  But  having  established  a  single  word,  we  are  en- 
abled to  establish  a  vastly  important  point;  that  is  to  say, 

20  several  commencements  and  terminations  of  other  words. 
Let  us  refer,  for  example,  to  the  last  instance  but  one, 
in  which  the  combination  548  occurs — not  far  from  the 
end  of  the  cipher.  We  know  that  the  semicolon  imme- 
diately ensuing  is  the  commencement  of  a  word,  and,  of 

25  the  six  characters  succeeding  this  '  the,'  we  are  cognizant 
of  no  less  than  five.  Let  us  set  these  characters  down, 
thus,  by  the  letters  we  know  them  to  represent,  leaving 
a  space  for  the  unknown — 

t  eeth. 

30  "  Here  we  are  enabled,  at  once,  to  discard  the  '  th* 
as  forming  no  portion  of  the  word  commencing  with  the 
first  t;  since,  by  experiment  of  the  entire  alphabet  for  a 
letter  adapted  to  the  vacancy,  we  perceive  that  no  word 


The  Gold-Bug  179 

can  be  formed  of  which  this  th  can  be  a  part.     We  are 
thus  narrowed  into 

tee, 

and,  going  through  the  alphabet,  if  necessary,  as  before,  we 
arrive  at  the  word  '  tree  '  as  the  sole  possible  reading.    We  5 
thus  gain  another  letter,  r,  represented  by   (,  with  the 
words  '  the  tree  '  in  juxtaposition. 

"  Looking  beyond  these  words,  for  a  short  distance,  we 
again  see  the  combination   ,-48,  and  employ  it  by  way  of 
termination   to   what    immediately   precedes.      We   have  10 
thus  this  arrangement: 

the  tree  ;4($?34  the, 

or,  substituting  the  natural  letters,  where  known,  it  reads 
thus: 

the  tree  thresh  the.  15 

"  Now,  if,  in  place  of  the  unknown  characters,  we 
leave  blank  spaces,  or  substitute  dots,  we  read  thus: 

the  tree  thr...  h  the, 

when  the  word  '  through  '  makes  itself  evident  at  once. 
But  this  discovery  gives  us  three  new  letters,  o,  u,  and  g,  20 
represented  by  J  ?  and  3. 

"  Looking  now,  narrowly,  through  the  cipher  for  com- 
binations of  known  characters,  we  find  not  very  far  from 
the  beginning,  this  arrangement, 

83(88,  or  egree,  25 

which,  plainly,  is  the  conclusion  of  the  word  'degree,' 
and  gives  us  another  letter,  d,  represented  by  f. 


i8o 


The  Short  Story 


"  Four  letters  beyond  the  word  '  degree,'  we  perceive 
the  combination 

;46(;88» 

"Translating  the  known  characters,  and  representing 
5  the  unknown  by  dots,  as  before,  we  read  thus: 

th  .  rtee. 

an  arrangement  immediately  suggestive  of  the  word  '  thir- 
teen,' and  again  furnishing  us  with  two  new  characters, 
/  and  n,  represented  by  6  and  *. 

10       "  Referring,  now,  to  the  beginning  of  the  cryptograph, 
we  find  the  combination, 

ssttt. 

"  Translating,  as  before,  we  obtain 
•  good, 

15  which  assures  us  that  the  first  letter  is  A,  and  that  the 
first   two  words  are   '  A   good.' 

"  To  avoid  confusion,  it  is  now  time  that  we  arrange 
our  key,  as  far  as  discovered,  in  a  tabular  form.  It  will 
stand  thus: 


20 


5  represents  a 
d 

e 


The  Gold-Bug  181 

"  We  have,  therefore,  no  less  than  ten  of  the  most  im- 
portant letters  represented,  and  it  will  be  unnecessary  to 
proceed  with  the  details  of  the  solution.  I  have  said 
enough  to  convince  you  that  ciphers  of  this  nature  are 
readily  soluble,  and  to  give  you  some  insight  into  the  5 
rationale  of  their  development.  But  be  assured  that  the 
specimen  before  us  appertains  to  the  very  simplest  species 
of  cryptograph.  It  now  only  remains  to  give  you  the  full 
translation  of  the  characters  upon  the  parchment,  as  un- 
riddled. Here  it  is:  10 

" '  A  good  glass  in  the  bishop's  hostel  in  the  devil's  seat 
twenty  one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes  north-east  and  by 
north  main  branch  seventh  limb  east  side  shoot  from  the  left 
eye  of  the  death's-head  a  bee-line  from  the  tree  through  the 
shot  fifty  feet  out.' "  15 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  the  enigma  seems  still  in  as  bad  a  con- 
dition as  ever.  How  is  it  possible  to  extort  a  meaning 
from  all  this  jargon  about  '  devil's  seats,'  '  death's-heads,' 
and  '  bishop's  hotels  '  ?  " 

"  I  confess,"  replied  Legrand,  "  that  the  matter  still  20 
wears   a   serious    aspect,    when    regarded    with    a   casual 
glance.     My  first  endeavor  was  to  divide  the  sentence 
into    the    natural    division    intended    by    the    cryptogra- 
phist." 

"You  mean,  to  punctuate  it?"  25 

"  Something  of  that  kind." 

"But  how  was  it  possible  to  effect  this?" 

"  I  reflected  that  it  had  been  a  point  with  the  writer  to 
run  his  words  together  without  division,  so  as  to  increase 
the  difficulty  of  solution.  Now,  a  not  over-acute  man,  in  30 
pursuing  such  an  object,  would  be  nearly  certain  to  overdo 
the  matter.  When,  in  the  course  of  his  composition,  he 
arrived  at  a  break  in  his  subject  which  would  naturally 


1 82  The  Short  Story 

require  a  pause,  or  a  point,  he  would  be  exceedingly  apt 
to  run  his  characters,  at  this  place,  more  than  usually 
close  together.  If  you  will  observe  the  MS.,  in  the  present 
instance,  you  will  easily  detect  five  such  cases  of  unusual 
5  crowding.  Acting  on  this  hint,  I  made  the  division  thus: 

" '  A   good  glass  in   the  Bishop's   hostel  in   the  Devil's   seat 

— twenty-one  degrees  and  thirteen   minutes — north-east  and  by 

north — main    branch    seventh    limb    east    side — shoot   from    the 

left  eye  of  the  death's-head — a  bee-line  from  the  tree  through 

IO  the  shot  fifty  feet  out.' " 

"  Even  this  division,"  said  I,  "  leaves  me  still  in  the 
dark." 

"  It  left  me  also  in  the  dark,"  replied  Legrand,  "  for 
a  few  days;  during  which  I  made  diligent  inquiry,  in  the 

15  neighborhood  of  Sullivan's  Island,  for  any  building  which 
went  by  the  name  of  the  '  Bishop's  Hotel ' ;  for,  of  course, 
I  dropped  the  obsolete  word  '  hostel.'  Gaining  no  informa- 
tion on  the  subject,  I  was  on  the  point  of  extending  my 
sphere  of  search,  and  proceeding  in  a  more  systematic  man- 

20  ner,  when  one  morning  it  entered  into  my  head,  quite 
suddenly,  that  this  '  Bishop's  Hostel '  might  have  some 
reference  to  an  old  family,  of  the  name  of  Bessop,  which, 
time  out  of  mind,  had  held  possession  of  an  ancient 
manor-house,  about  four  miles  to  the  northward  of  the 

25  island.  I  accordingly  went  over  to  the  plantation,  and 
reinstituted  my  inquiries  among  the  older  negroes  of  the 
place.  At  length  one  of  the  most  aged  of  the  women 
said  that  she  had  heard  of  such  a  place  as  Bessop's  Castle, 
and  thought  that  she  could  guide  me  to  it,  but  that  it  was 

30  not  a  castle,  nor  a  tavern,  but  a  high  rock. 

"  I  offered  to  pay  her  well  for  her  trouble,  and,  after 
some  demur,  she  consented  to  accompany  me  to  the  spot. 
We  found  it  without  much  difficulty,  when,  dismissing 


The  Gold-Bug  183 

her,  I  proceeded  to  examine  the  place.  The  '  castle  '  con- 
sisted of  an  irregular  assemblage  of  cliffs  and  rocks — one 
of  the  latter  being  quite  remarkable  for  its  height  as  well 
as  for  its  insulated  and  artificial  appearance.  I  clambered 
to  its  apex,  and  then  felt  much  at  a  loss  as  to  what  should  5 
be  next  done. 

"  While  I  was  busied  in  reflection,  my  eyes  fell  on  a 
narrow  ledge  in  the  eastern  face  of  the  rock,  perhaps 
a  yard  below  the  summit  upon  which  I  stood.  This 
ledge  projected  about  eighteen  inches,  and  was  not  more  10 
than  a  foot  wide,  while  a  niche  in  the  cliff  just  above  it 
gave  it  a  rude  resemblance  to  one  of  the  hollow-backed 
chairs  used  by  our  ancestors.  I  made  no  doubt  that 
here  was  the  '  devil's  seat '  alluded  to  in  the  MS.,  and 
now  I  seemed  to  grasp  the  full  secret  of  the  riddle.  15 

"  The  '  good  glass,'  I  knew,  could  have  reference  to 
nothing  but  a  telescope ;  for  the  word  '  glass '  is  rarely 
employed  in  any  other  sense  by  seamen.  Now  here,  I  at 
once  saw,  was  a  telescope  to  be  used,  and  a  definite  point 
of  view,  admitting  no  variation,  from  which  to  use  it.  20 
Nor  did  I  hesitate  to  believe  that  the  phrases,  '  twenty- 
one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes,'  and  '  north-east  and 
by  north,'  were  intended  as  directions  for  the  leveling  of 
the  glass.  Greatly  excited  by  these  discoveries,  I  hurried 
home,  procured  a  telescope,  and  returned  to  the  rock.  25 

"  I  let  myself  down  to  the  ledge,  and  found  that  it 
was  impossible  to  retain  a  seat  on  it  unless  in  one  par- 
ticular position.  This  fact  confirmed  my  preconceived 
idea.  I  proceeded  to  use  the  glass.  Of  course,  the 
'  twenty-one  degrees  and  thirteen  minutes '  could  allude  30 
to  nothing  but  elevation  above  the  visible  horizon,  since 
the  horizontal  direction  was  clearly  indicated  by  the 
words,  '  north-east  and  by  north.'  This  latter  direction 
I  at  once  established  by  means  of  a  pocket-compass;  then, 


184  The  Short  Story 

pointing  the  glass  as  nearly  at  an  angle  of  twenty-one 
degrees  of  elevation  as  I  could  do  it  by  guess,  I  moved  it 
cautiously  up  or  down,  until  my  attention  was  arrested  by 
a  circular  rift  or  opening  in  the  foliage  of  a  large  tree 
5  that  overtopped  its  fellows  in  the  distance.  In  the  center 
of  this  rift  I  perceived  a  white  spot,  but  could  not,  at 
first,  distinguish  what  it  was.  Adjusting  the  focus  of  the 
telescope,  I  again  looked,  and  now  made  it  out  to  be  a 
human  skull. 

10  "  On  this  discovery  I  was  so  sanguine  as  to  consider 
the  enigma  solved ;  for  the  phrase  '  main  branch,  seventh 
limb,  east  side,'  could  refer  only  to  the  position  of  the  skull 
on  the  tree,  while  '  shoot  from  the  left  eye  of  the  death's- 
head  '  admitted,  also,  of  but  one  interpretation,  in  regard 

15  to  a  search  for  buried  treasure.  I  perceived  that  the 
design  was  to  drop  a  bullet  from  the  left  eye  of  the  skull, 
and  that  a  bee-line,  or,  in  other  words,  a  straight  line, 
drawn  from  the  nearest  point  of  the  trunk  through  '  the 
shot'  (or  the  spot  where  the  bullet  fell),  and  thence 

20  extended  to  a  distance  of  fifty  feet,  would  indicate  a 
definite  point — and  beneath  this  point  I  thought  it  at 
least  possible  that  a  deposit  of  value  lay  concealed." 

"  All  this,"  I  said,  "  is  exceedingly  clear,  and,  al- 
though ingenious,  still  simple  and  explicit.  When  you 

25  left  the  Bishop's  Hotel,  what  then?" 

"  Why,  having  carefully  taken  the  bearings  of  the 
tree,  I  turned  homewards.  The  instant  that  I  left  '  the 
devil's  seat,'  however,  the  circular  rift  vanished ;  nor  could 
I  get  a  glimpse  of  it  afterwards,  turn  as  I  would.  What 

30  seems  to  me  the  chief  ingenuity  in  this  whole  business,  is 
the  fact  (for  repeated  experiment  has  convinced  me  it  is 
a  fact)  that  the  circular  opening  in  question  is  visible 
from  no  other  attainable  point  of  view  than  that  afforded 
by  the  narrow  ledge  on  the  face  of  the  rock. 


The  Gold-Bug  183 

"  In  this  expedition  to  the  '  Bishop's  Hotel '  I  had 
been  attended  by  Jupiter,  who  had  no  doubt  observed,  for 
some  weeks  past,  the  abstraction  of  my  demeanor,  and 
took  special  care  not  to  leave  me  alone.  But  on  the  next 
day,  getting  up  very  early,  I  contrived  to  give  him  the  5 
slip,  and  went  into  the  hills  in  search  of  the  tree.  After 
much  toil  I  found  it.  When  I  came  home  at  night  my 
valet  proposed  to  give  me  a  flogging.  With  the  rest 
of  the  adventure  I  believe  you  are  as  well  acquainted  as 
myself."  10 

"  I  suppose,"  said  I,  "  you  missed  the  spot,  in  the 
first  attempt  at  digging,  through  Jupiter's  stupidity  in 
letting  the  bug  fall  through  the  right  instead  of  through 
the  left  eye  of  the  skull." 

"  Precisely.     This  mistake  made  a  difference  of  about  15 
two  inches  and  a  half  in  the  '  shot ' — that  is  to  say,  in 
the   position  of  the  peg  nearest   the   tree;   and   had   the 
treasure  been  beneath  the  '  shot,'  the  error  would  have 
been  of  little  moment ;  but  '  the  shot,'  together  with  the 
nearest  point  of  the  tree,  were  merely  two  points  for  the  20 
esablishment  of  a  line  of  direction ;  of  course  the  error, 
however  trivial  in  the  beginning,  increased  as  we  proceeded 
with  the  line,  and,  by  the  time  we  had  gone  fifty  feet, 
threw  us  quite  off  the  scent.     But  for  my  deep-seated 
convictions   that   treasure   was  here   somewhere   actually  25 
buried,  we  might  have  had  all  our  labor  in  vain." 

"  I  presume  the  fancy  of  the  skull — of  letting  fall  a 
bullet  through  the  skull's  eye — was  suggested   to   Kidd 
by  the  piratical  flag.     No  doubt  he  felt  a  kind  of  poetical 
consistency  in  recovering  his  money  through  this  ominous  30 
insignium." 

"Perhaps  so;  still,  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  com- 
mon sense  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with  the  matter  as 
poetical  consistency.  To  be  visible  from  the  Devil's  seat, 


1 86  The  Short  Story 

• 

it  was  necessary  that  the  object,  if  small,  should  be  white; 
and  there  is  nothing  like  your  human  skull  for  retaining 
and  even  increasing  its  whiteness  under  exposure  to  all 
vicissitudes  of  weather." 

5  "  But  your  grandiloquence,  and  your  conduct  in  swing- 
ing the  beetle — how  excessively  odd!  I  was  sure  you 
were  mad.  And  why  did  you  insist  on  letting  fall  the 
bug,  instead  of  a  bullet,  from  the  skull?  " 

"  Why,    to   be   frank,    I    felt   somewhat   annoyed    by 

10  your  evident  suspicions  touching  my  sanity,  and  so  resolved 
to  punish  you  quietly,  in  my  own  way,  by  a  little  bit  of 
sober  mystification.  For  this  reason  I  swung  the  beetle, 
and  for  this  reason  I  let  it  fall  from  the  tree.  An  obser- 
vation of  yours  about  its  great  weight  suggested  the  latter 

15  idea." 

"Yes,  I  perceive;  and  now  there  is  only  one  point 
which  puzzles  me.  What  are  we  to  make  of  the  skele- 
tons found  in  the  hole?" 

"  That  is  a  question   I  am  no  more  able  to  answer 

20  than  yourself.  There  seems,  however,  only  one  plausible 
way  of  accounting  for  them — and  yet  it  is  dreadful  to 
believe  in  such  atrocity  as  my  suggestion  would  imply. 
It  is  clear  that  Kidd — if  Kidd  indeed  secreted  this  treas- 
ure, which  I  doubt  not — it  is  clear  that  he  must  have  had 

25  assistance  in  the  labor.  But,  the  worst  of  this  labor  con- 
cluded, he  may  have  thought  it  expedient  to  remove  all 
participants  in  his  secret.  Perhaps  a  couple  of  blows  with 
a  mattock  were  sufficient,  while  his  coadjutors  were  busy 
in  the  pit ;  perhaps  it  required  a  dozen — who  shall  tell  ?  " 


ETHAN  BRAND* 

i 

A  CHAPTER   FROM  AN   ABORTIVE  ROMANCE 
BY  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 

BARTRAM  the  lime-burner,  a  rough,  heavy-lookirtg 
man,  begrimed  with  charcoal,  sat  watching  his  kiln,  at 
nightfall,  while  his  little  son  played  at  building  houses 
with  the  scattered  fragments  of  marble,  when,  on  the  hill- 
side below  them,  they  heard  a  roar  of  laughter,  not  mirth-  5 
ful,  but  slow,  and  even  solemn,  like  a  wind  shaking  the 
boughs  of  the  forest. 

"  Father,  what  is  that?"  asked  the  little  boy,  leaving 
his  play,  and  pressing  betwixt  his  father's  knees. 

"  O,   some   drunken   man,    I   suppose,"   answered   the  10 
lime-burner;  "some  merry  fellow  from  the  bar-room  in 
the  village,   who   dared   not   laugh   loud   enough  within 
doors,  lest  he  should  blow  the  roof  of  the  house  off.     So 
here  he  is,  shaking  his  jolly  sides  at  the  foot  of  Graylock." 

"  But,    father,"    said    the   child,    more   sensitive    than  15 
the  obtuse,  middle-aged  clown,  "  he  does  not  laugh  like  a 
man  that  is  glad.    So  the  noise  frightens  me!  " 

V  Don't  be  a  fool,  child !  "  cried   his  father,   gruffly. 
"  You  will  never  make  a  man,  I  do  believe ;  there  is  too 

•NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE  (1804-1864),  American  novelist, 
best  known,  perhaps,  for  his  series  of  short  stories,  T<wice-Told 
Tales,  in  which  this  tale  was  included,  and  Mosses  from  an 
Old  Manse,  and  for  his  novels,  The  Scarlet  Letter,  and  The 
House  of  the  Seven  Gables.  This  story  was  published  in  1851. 
See  also  pp.  39-45,  47-50,  54,  62,  64-65. 

187 


1 88  The  Short  Story 

much  of  your  mother  in  you.  I  have  known  the  rustling 
of  a  leaf  startle  you.  Hark!  Here  comes  the  merry 
fellow  now.  You  shall  see  that  there  is  no  harm  in 
him." 

5  Bartram  and  his  little  son,  while  they  were  talking 
thus,  sat  watching  the  same  lime-kiln  that  had  been  the 
scene  of  Ethan  Brand's  solitary  and  meditative  life,  be- 
fore he  began  his  search  for  the  Unpardonable  Sin.  Many 
years,  as  we  have  seen, -had  now  elapsed,  since  that  por- 

10  tentous  night  when  the  IDEA  was  first  developed.  The 
kiln,  however,  on  the  mountain-side,  stood  unimpaired, 
and  was  in  nothing  changed  since  he  had  thrown  his 
dark  thoughts  into  the  intense  glow  of  its  furnace,  and 
melted  them,  as  it  were,  into  the  one  thought  that  took 

15  possession  of  his  life.  It  was  a  rude,  round,  towerlike 
structure,  about  twenty  feet  high,  heavily  built  of  rough 
stones,  and  with  a  hillock  of  earth  heaped  about  the  larger 
part  of  its  circumference;  so  that  the  blocks  and  frag- 
ments of  marble  might  be  drawn  by  cart-loads,  and  thrown 

20  in  at  the  top.  There  was  an  opening  at  the  bottom  of  the 
tower  like  an  oven-mouth,  but  large  enough  to  admit  a 
man  in  a  stooping  posture,  and  provided  with  a  massive 
iron  door.  With  the  smoke  and  jets  of  flame  issuing 
from  the  chinks  and  crevices  of  this  door,  which  seemed 

23  to  give  admittance  into  the  hillside,  it  resembled  nothing 
so  much  as  the  private  entrance  to  the  infernal  regions, 
which  the  shepherds  of  the  Delectable  Mountains  were 
accustomed  to  show  to  pilgrims. 

There  are  many  such  lime-kilns  in  that  tract  of  coun- 

30  try,  for  the  purpose  of  burning  the  white  marble  which 
composes  a  large  part  of  the  substance  of  the  hills.  Some 
of  them,  built  years  ago,  and  long  deserted,  with  weeds 
growing  in  the  vacant  round  of  the  interior,  which  is  open 
to  the  sky,  and  grass  and  wildflowers  rooting  themselves 


Ethan  Brand  189 

into  the  chinks  of  the  stones,  look  already  like  relics  of 
antiquity,  and  may  yet  be  overspread  with  the  lichens 
of  centuries  to  come.  Others,  where  the  lime-burner 
still  feeds  his  daily  and  night-long  fire,  afford  points  of 
interest  to  the  wanderer  among  the  hills,  who  seats  him-  5 
self  on  a  log  of  wood  or  a  fragment  of  marble,  to  hold 
a  chat  with  the  solitary  man.  It  is  a  lonesome,  and,  when 
the  character  is  inclined  to  thought,  may  be  an  intensely 
thoughtful  occupation;  as  it  proved  in  the  case  of  Ethan 
Brand,  who  had  mused  to  such  strange  purpose,  in  10 
days  gone  by,  while  the  fire  in  this  very  kiln  was 
burning. 

The  man  who  now  watched  the  fire  was  of  a  different 
order,  and  troubled  himself  with  no  thoughts  save  the 
very  few  that  were  requisite  to  his  business.  At  fre-  15 
quent  intervals,  he  flung  back  the  clashing  weight  of  the 
iron  door,  and,  turning  his  face  from  the  insufferable 
glare,  thrust  in  huge  logs  of  oak,  or  stirred  the  immense 
brands  with  a  long  pole.  Within  the  furnace  were  seen 
the  curling  and  riotous  flames,  and  the  burning  marble,  20 
almost  molten  with  the  intensity  of  heat ;  while  without, 
the  reflection  of  the  fire  quivered  on  the  dark  intricacy 
of  the  surrounding  forest,  and  showed  in  the  foreground 
a  bright  and  ruddy  little  picture  of  the  hut,  the  spring 
beside  its  door,  the  athletic  and  coal-begrimed  figure  of  25 
the  lime-burner,  and  the  half-frightened  child,  shrinking 
into  the  protection  of  his  father's  shadow."  And  when 
again  the  iron  door  was  closed,  then  reappeared  the  tender 
light  of  the  half-full  moon,  which  vainly  strove  to  trace 
out  the  indistinct  shapes  of  the  neighboring  mountains;  30 
and,  in  the  upper  sky,  there  was  a  flitting  congregation  of 
clouds,  still  faintly  tinged  with  the  rosy  sunset,  though 
thus  far  down  into  the  valley  the  sunshine  had  vanished 
long  and  long  ago. 


190  The  Short  Story 

The  little  boy  now  crept  still  closer  to  his  father,  as 
footsteps  were  heard  ascending  the  hillside,  and  a  human 
form  thrust  aside  the  bushes  that  clustered  beneath  the 
trees. 

5  "Halloo!  who  is  it?"  cried  the  lime-burner,  vexed  at 
his  son's  timidity,  yet  half  infected  by  it.  "  Come  for- 
ward, and  show  yourself,  like  a  man,  or  I'll  fling  this 
chunk  of  marble  at  your  head !  " 

"  You  offer  me  a  rough  welcome,"  said  a  gloomy  voice, 

10  as  the  unknown  man  drew  nigh.  "  Yet  I  neither  claim 
nor  desire  a  kinder  one,  even  at  my  own  fireside." 

To  obtain  a  distincter  view,  Bartram  threw  open  the 
iron  door  of  the  kiln,  whence  immediately  issued  a  gush 
of  fierce  light,  that  smote  full  upon  the  stranger's  face 

15  and  figure.  To  a  careless  eye  there  appeared  nothing 
very  remarkable  in  his  aspect,  which  was  that  of  a  man  in  a 
coarse,  brown,  country-made  suit  of  clothes,  tall  and  thin, 
with  the  staff  and  heavy  shoes  of  a  wayfarer.  As  he 
advanced,  he  fixed  his  eyes — which  were  very  bright — 

20  intently  upon  the  brightness  of  the  furnace,  as  if  he  be- 
held, or  expected  to  behold,  some  object  worthy  of  note 
within  it. 

"  Good  evening,  stranger,"  said  the  lime-burner ; 
"whence  come  you,  so  late  in  the  day?" 

25  "  I  come  from  my  search,"  answered  the  wayfarer ; 
"  for,  at  last,  it  is  finished." 

"Drunk!— or  crazy!"  muttered  Bartram  to  himself. 
"  I  shall  have  trouble  with  the  fellow.  The  sooner  I 
drive  him  away,  the  better." 

30  The  little  boy,  all  in  a  tremble,  whispered  to  his 
father,  and  begged  him  to  shut  the  door  of  the  kiln,  so 
that  there  might  not  be  so  much  light ;  for  that  there  was 
something  in  the  man's  face  which  he  was  afraid  to  look 
at,  yet  could  not  look  away  from.  And,  indeed,  even 


Ethan  Brand  191 

the  lime-burner's  dull  and  torpid  sense  began  to  be  im- 
pressed by  an  indescribable  something  in  that  thin,  rugged, 
thoughtful  visage,  with  the  grizzled  hair  hanging  wildly 
about  it,  and  those  deeply-sunken  eyes,  which  gleamed 
like  fires  within  the  entrance  of  a  mysterious  cavern.  5 
But,  as  he  closed  the  door,  the  stranger  turned  towards 
him,  and  spoke  in  a  quiet,  familiar  way,  that  made 
Bartram  feel  as  if  he  were  a  sane  and  sensible  man,  after 
all. 

"  Your  task  draws  to  an  end,  I  see,"  said  he.     "  This  10 
marble   has   already   been   burning   three   days.     A   few 
hours  more  will  convert  the  stone  to  lime." 

"Why,  who  are  you?"  exclaimed  the  lime-burner. 
"  You  seem  as  well  acquainted  with  my  business  as  I  am 
myself."  15 

"And  well  I  may  be,"  said  the  stranger;  "for  I  fol- 
lowed the  same  craft  many  a  long  year,  and  here,  too,  on 
this  very  spot.  But  you  are  a  newcomer  in  these  parts. 
Did  you  never  hear  of  Ethan  Brand  ?  " 

"  The  man  that  went  in  search  of  the  Unpardonable  20 
Sin  ?  "  asked  Bartram,  with  a  laugh. 

"  The  same,"  answered  the  stranger.  "  He  has  found 
what  he  sought,  and  therefore  he  comes  back  again." 

"What!  then  you  are  Ethan  Brand  himself?"  cried 
the  lime-burner,  in  amazement.    "  I  am  a  newcomer  here,  25 
as  you  say,  and  they  call  it  eighteen  years  since  you  left 
the  foot  of  Graylock.    But,  I  can  tell  you,  the  good  folks 
still  talk  about  Ethan  Brand,  in  the  village  yonder,  and 
what  a  strange  errand   took  him   away   from   his  lime- 
kiln.    Well,  and  so  you  have  found  the  Unpardonable  30 
Sin?" 

"Even  so!"  said   the  stranger,  calmly. 

"  If  the  question  is  a  fair  one,"  proceeded  Bartram, 
"  where  might  it  be  ?  " 


192  The  Short  Story 

Ethan  Brand  laid  his  finger  on  his  own  heart. 

"Here!"  replied  he. 

And  then,  without  mirth  in  his  countenance,  but  as 

if  moved   by   an   involuntary   recognition   of  the   infinite 

5  absurdity  of  seeking  throughout  the  world  for  what  was 

the  closest  of  all  things  to  himself,  and  looking  into  every 

heart,  save  his  own,   for  what  was  hidden   in  no  other 

breast,  he  broke  into  a  laugh  of  scorn.     It  was  the  same 

slow,   heavy   laugh   that   had   almost   appalled   the   lime- 

10  burner  when  it  heralded   the  wayfarer's  approach. 

The  solitary  mountain-side  was  made  dismal  by  it. 
Laughter,  when  out  of  place,  mistimed,  or  bursting  forth 
from  a  disordered  state  of  feeling,  may  be  the  most  ter- 
rible modulation  of  the  human  voice.  The  laughter 
15  of  one  asleep,  even  if  it  be  a  little  child, — the  madman's 
laugh — the  wild,  screaming  laugh  of  a  born  idiot, — are 
sounds  that  we  sometimes  tremble  to  hear,  and  would 
always  willingly  forget.  Poets  have  imagined  no  utter- 
ance of  fiends  or  hobgoblins  so  fearfully  appropriate  as 
20  a  laugh.  And  even  the  obtuse  lime-burner  felt  his  nerves 
shaken,  as  this  strange  man  looked  inward  at  his  own 
heart,  and  burst  into  laughter  that  rolled  away  into  the 
night,  and  was  indistinctly  reverberated  among  the  hills. 

"  Joe,"  said  he  to  his  little  son,  "  scamper  down  to 
25  the  tavern  in  the  village,  and  tell  the  jolly  fellows  there 
that  Ethan  Brand  has  come  back,  and  that  he  has  found 
the  Unpardonable  Sin !  " 

The  boy  darted  away  on  his  errand,  to  which  Ethan 
Brand  made  no  objection,  nor  seemed  hardly  to  notice  it. 
30  He  sat  on  a  log  of  wood  looking  steadfastly  at  the  iron 
door  of  the  kiln.  When  the  child  was  out  of  sight,  and  his 
swift  and  light  footsteps  ceased  to  be  heard  treading  first 
on  the  fallen  leaves  and  then  on  the  rocky  mountain- 
path,  the  lime-burner  began  to  regret  his  departure.  He 


Ethan  Brand  193 

felt  that  the  little  fellow's  presence  had  been  a  barrier 
between  his  guest  and  himself,  and  that  he  must  now 
deal,  heart  to  heart,  with  a  man  who,  on  his  own  confes- 
sion, had  committed  the  one  only  crime  for  which  Heaven 
could  afford  no  mercy.  That  crime,  in  its  distinct  black-  5 
ness,  seemed  to  overshadow  him.  The  lime-burner's  own 
sins  rose  up  within  him,  and  made  his  memory  riotous 
with  a  throng  of  evil  shapes  that  asserted  their  kindred 
with  the  Master  Sin,  whatever  it  might  be,  which  it  was 
within  the  scope  of  man's  corrupted  nature  to  conceive  10 
and  cherish.  They  were  all  of  one  family ;  they  went  to 
and  fro  between  his  breast  and  Ethan  Brand's,  and  car- 
ried dark  greetings  from  one  to  the  other. 

Then  Bartram  remembered  the  stories  which  had 
grown  traditionary  in  reference  to  this  strange  man,  who  15 
had  come  upon  him  like  a  shadow  of  the  night,  and  was 
making  himself  at  home  in  his  old  place,  after  so  long 
absence  that  the  dead  people,  dead  and  buried  for  years, 
would  have  had  more  right  to  be  at  home,  in  any  familiar 
spot,  than  he.  Ethan  Brand,  it  was  said,  had  conversed  20 
with  Satan  himself  in  the  lurid  blaze  of  this  very  kiln. 
The  legend  had  been  matter  of  mirth  heretofore,  but 
looked  grisly  now.  According  to  this  tale,  before  Ethan 
Brand  departed  on  his  search,  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  evoke  a  fiend  from  the  hot  furnace  of  the  lime-kiln,  25 
night  after  night,  in  order  to  confer  with  him  about  the 
Unpardonable  Sin ;  the  man  and  the  fiend  each  laboring  to 
frame  the  image  of  some  mode  of  guilt  which  could 
neither  be  atoned  for  nor  forgiven.  And,  with  the  first 
gleam  of  light  upon  the  mountain-top,  the  fiend  crept  in  30 
at  the  iron  door,  there  to  abide  the  intensest  element  of 
fire,  until  again  summoned  forth  to  share  in  the  dread- 
ful task  of  extending  man's  possible  guilt  beyond  the 
scope  of  Heaven's  else  infinite  mercy. 


194  The  Short  Story 

While  the  lime-burner  was  struggling  with  the  horror 
of  these  thoughts,  Ethan  Brand  rose  from  the  log,  and  flung 
open  the  door  of  the  kiln.  The  action  was  in  such  accord- 
ance with  the  idea  in  Bartram's  mind,  that  he  almost 
5  expected  to  see  the  Evil  One  issue  forth,  red-hot  from  the 
raging  furnace. 

"  Hold!  hold!  "  cried  he,  with  a  tremulous  attempt  to 
laugh;  for  he  was  ashamed  of  his  fears,  although  they 
overmastered  him.     "  Don't,  for  mercy's  sake,  bring  out 
10  your  devil  now !  " 

"Man!"  sternly  replied  Ethan  Brand,  "what  need 
have  I  of  the  devil?  I  have  left  him  behind  me,  on  my 
track.  It  is  with  such  half-way  sinners  as  you  that  he 
busies  himself.  Fear  not,  because  I  open  the  door.  I  do 
15  but  act  by  old  custom,  and  am  going  to  trim  your  fire, 
like  a  lime-burner,  as  I  was  once." 

He  stirred  the  vast  coals,  thrust  in  more  wood,  and 
bent  forward  to  gaze  into  the  hollow  prison-house  of  the 
fire,  regardless  of  the  fierce  glow  that  reddened  upon  his 
20  face.  The  lime-burner  sat  watching  him,  and  half 
suspected  his  strange  guest  of  a  purpose,  if  not  to  evoke 
a  fiend,  at  least  to  plunge  bodily  into  the  flames,  and  thus 
vanish  from  the  sight  of  man.  Ethan  Brand,  however, 
drew  quietly  back,  and  closed  the  door  of  the  kiln. 
25  "  I  have  looked,"  said  he,  "  into  many  a  human  heart 
that  was  seven  times  hotter  with  sinful  passions  than 
yonder  furnace  is  with  fire.  But  I  found  not  there  what 
I  sought.  No,  not  the  Unpardonable  Sin !  " 

"What  is  the  Unpardonable  Sin?"   asked  the  lime- 
30  burner ;  and  then  he  shrank  further  from  his  companion, 
trembling  lest  his  question  should  be  answered. 

"  It  is  a  sin  that  grew  within  my  own  breast,"  replied 
Ethan  Brand,  standing  erect,  with  a  pride  that  distin- 
guishes all  enthusiasts  of  his  stamp.  "  A  sin  that  grew 


Ethan  Brand  195 

nowhere  else !  The  sin  of  an  intellect  that  triumphed  over 
the  sense  of  brotherhood  with  man  and  reverence  for  God, 
and  sacrificed  everything  to  its  own  mighty  claims!  The 
only  sin  that  deserves  a  recompense  of  immortal  agony! 
Freely,  were  it  to  do  again,  would  I  incur  the  guilt.  5 
Unshrinkingly  I  accept  the  retribution !  " 

"  The  man's  head  is  turned,"  muttered  the  lime- 
burner  to  himself.  "  He  may  be  a  sinner,  like  the  rest 
of  us, — nothing  more  likely, — but,  I'll  be  sworn,  he  is  a 
madman,  too."  ic 

Nevertheless  he  felt  uncomfortable  at  his  situation, 
alone  with  Ethan  Brand  on  the  wrild  mountain-side,  and 
was  right  glad  to  hear  the  rough  murmur  of  tongues, 
and  the  footsteps  of  what  seemed  a  pretty  numerous 
party,  stumbling  over  the  stones  and  rustling  through  the  15 
underbrush.  Soon  appeared  the  whole  lazy  regiment  that 
was  wont  to  infest  the  village  tavern,  comprehending 
three  or  four  individuals  who  had  drunk  flip  beside  the 
bar-room  fire  through  all  the  winters,  and  smoked  their 
pipes  beneath  the  stoop  through  all  the  summers,  since  20 
Ethan  Brand's  departure.  Laughing  boisterously,  and 
mingling  all  their  voices  together  in  unceremonious  talk, 
they  now  burst  into  the  moonshine  and  narrow  streaks 
of  firelight  that  illuminated  the  open  space  before  the 
lime-kiln.  Bartram  set  the  door  ajar  again,  flooding  the  25 
spot  with  light,  that  the  whole  company  might  get  a 
fair  view  of  Ethan  Brand,  and  he  of  them. 

There,  among  other  old  acquaintances,  was  a  once  ubi- 
quitous man,  now  almost  extinct,  but  whom  we  were 
formerly  sure  to  encounter  at  the  hotel  of  every  thriving  30 
village  throughout  the  country.  It  was  the  stage-agent. 
The  present  specimen  of  the  genus  was  a  wilted  and 
smoke-dried  man,  wrinkled  and  red-nosed,  in  a  smartly- 
cut,  brown,  bob-tailed  coat,  with  brass  buttons,  who,  for 


196  The  Short  Story 

a  length  of  time  unknown,  had  kept  his  desk  and  corner 
in  the  bar-room,  and  was  still  puffing  what  seemed  to  be 
the  same  cigar  that  he  had  lighted  twenty  years  before. 
He  had  great  fame  as  a  dry  joker,  though,  perhaps,  less 
5  on  account  of  any  intrinsic  humor  than  from  a  certain 
flavor  of  brandy-toddy  and  tobacco-smoke,  which  impreg- 
nated all  his  ideas  and  expressions,  as  well  as  his  person. 
Another  well-remembered  though  strangely-altered  face 
was  that  of  Lawyer  Giles,  as  people  still  called  him  in 

10  courtesy ;  an  elderly  ragamuffin,  in  his  soiled  shirt-sleeves 
and  tow-cloth  trousers.  This  poor  fellow  had  been  an 
attorney,  in  what  he  called  his  better  days,  a  sharp 
practitioner,  and  in  great  vogue  among  the  village  liti- 
gants; but  flip,  and  sling,  and  toddy,  and  cocktails,  im- 

15  bibed  at  all  hours,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  had  caused 
him  to  slide  from  intellectual  to  various  kinds  and  degrees 
of  bodily  labor,  till  at  last,  to  adopt  his  own  phrase,  he 
slid  into  a  soap-vat.  In  other  words,  Giles  was  now  a 
soap-boiler,  in  a  small  way.  He  had  come  to  be  but  the 

20  fragment  of  a  human  being,  a  part  of  one  foot  having 
been  chopped  off  by  an  axe,  and  an  entire  hand  torn  away 
by  the  devilish  grip  of  a  steam-engine.  Yet  though  the 
corporeal  hand  was  gone,  a  spiritual  member  remained ; 
for,  stretching  forth  the  stump,  Giles  steadfastly  averred 

25  that  he  felt  an  invisible  thumb  and  fingers  with  as  vivid 
a  sensation  as  before  the  real  ones  were  amputated.  A 
maimed  and  miserable  wretch  he  was;  but  one,  neverthe- 
less, whom  the  world  could  not  trample  on,  and  had 
no  right  to  scorn,  either  in  this  or  any  previous  stage  of 

30  his  misfortunes,  since  he  had  still  kept  up  the  courage  and 
spirit  of  a  man,  asked  nothing  in  charity,  and  with  his  one 
hand — and  that  the  left  one — fought  a  stern  battle  against 
want  and  hostile  circumstances. 

Among  the  throng,  too,  came  another  personage,  who, 


Ethan  Brand  197 

with  certain  points  of  similarity  to  Lawyer  Giles,  had 
many  more  of  difference.  It  was  the  village  doctor;  a 
man  of  some  fifty  years,  whom,  at  an  earlier  period  of  his 
life,  we  introduced  as  paying  a  professional  visit  to 
Ethan  Brand  during  the  latter's  supposed  insanity.  He  5 
was  now  a  purple-visaged,  rude,  and  brutal,  yet  half- 
gentlemanly  figure,  with  something  wild,  ruined,  and 
desperate  in  his  talk,  and  in  all  the  details  of  his  gesture 
and  manners.  Brandy  possessed  this  man  like  an  evil 
spirit,  and  made  him  as  surly  and  savage  as  a  wild  beast,  10 
and  as  miserable  as  a  lost  soul ;  but  there  was  supposed  to 
be  in  him  such  wonderful  skill,  such  native  gifts  of  heal- 
ing, beyond  any  which  medical  science  could  impart,  that 
society  caught  hold  of  him,  and  would  not  let  him  sink 
out  of  its  reach.  So,  swaying  to  and  fro  upon  his  horse,  15 
and  grumbling  thick  accents  at  the  bedside,  he  visited 
all  the  sick-chambers  for  miles  about  among  the  moun- 
tain towns,  and  sometimes  raised  a  dying  man,  as  it  were, 
by  miracle,  or  quite  as  often,  no  doubt,  sent  his  patient 
to  a  grave  that  was  dug  many  a  year  too  soon.  The  doc-  20 
tor  had  an  everlasting  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  as  somebody 
said,  in  allusion  to  his  habit  of  swearing,  ft  was  always 
alight  with  hell-fire. 

These  three  worthies  pressed  forward,  and  greeted 
Ethan  Brand  each  after  his  own  fashion,  earnestly  invit-  25 
ing  him  to  partake  of  the  contents  of  a  certain  black 
bottle,  in  which,  as  they  averred,  he  would  find  some- 
thing far  better  worth  seeking  for  than  the  Unpardonable 
Sin.  No  mind,  which  has  wrought  itself  by  intense  and 
solitary  meditation  into  a  high  state  of  enthusiasm,  can  30 
endure  the  kind  of  contact  with  low  and  vulgar  modes  of 
thought  and  feeling  to  which  Ethan  Brand  was  now  sub- 
jected. It  made  him  doubt — and,  strange  to  say,  it  was 
a  painful  doubt — whether  he  had  indeed  found  the  Un- 


198  The  Short  Story 

pardonable  Sin,  and  found  it  within  himself.  The  whole 
question  on  which  he  had  exhausted  life,  and  more  than 
life,  looked  like  a  delusion. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  ye  brute  beasts,  that 

5  have  made  yourselves  so,  shriveling  up  your  souls  with 

fiery  liquors!     I  have  done  with  you.     Years  and  years 

ago,  I  groped  into  your  hearts,  and  found  nothing  there 

for  my  purpose..    Get  ye  gone!  " 

"  Why,  you  uncivil  scoundrel,"  cried  the  fierce  doctor, 

10  "  is  that  the  way  you  respond  to  the  kindness  of  your 

best  friends?    Then  let  me  tell  you  the  truth.    You  have 

no  more  found  the  Unpardonable  Sin  than  yonder  boy 

Joe  has.     You  are  but  a  crazy  fellow, — I  told  you  so 

twenty    years    ago, — neither   better    nor    worse    than    a 

15  crazy  fellow,  and  the  fit  companion  of  old  Humphrey, 

here!" 

He  pointed  to  an  old  man,  shabbily  dressed,  with  long 
white  hair,  thin  visage,  and  unsteady  eyes.    For  some  years 
past  this  aged  person  had  been  wandering  about  among 
20  the  hills,  inquiring  of  all  travelers  whom  he  met  for  his 
daughter.    The  girl,  it  seemed,  had  gone  off  with  a  com- 
pany  of   circus-performers;    and   occasionally    tidings   of 
her  came  to  the  village,  and  fine  stories  were  told  of  her 
glittering  appearance  as  she  rode  on  horseback  in  the  ring, 
25  or  performed  marvelous  feats  on  the  tight-rope. 

The  white-haired  father  now  approached  Ethan  Brand, 
and   gazed  unsteadily  into  his  face. 

"  They  tell  me  you  have  been  all  over  the  earth,"  said 
he,  wringing  his  hands  with  earnestness.  "  You  must  have 
30  seen  my  daughter,  for  she  makes  a  grand  figure  in  the 
world,  and  everybody  goes  to  see  her.  Did  she  send  any 
word  to  her  old  father,  or  say  when  she  was  coming 
back?" 

Ethan    Brand's   eye   quailed    beneath    the   old    man's. 


Ethan  Brand  199 

That  daughter,  from  whom  he  so  earnestly  desired  a  word 
of  greeting,  was  the  Esther  of  our  tale,  the  very  girl 
whom,  with  such  cold  and  remorseless  purpose,  Ethan 
Brand  had  made  the  subject  of  a  psychological  experi- 
ment, and  wasted,  absorbed,  and  perhaps  annihilated  her  5 
soul,  in  the  process. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  he,  turning  away  from  the  hoary 
wanderer;  "  it  is  no  delusion.  There  is  an  Unpardonable 
Sin!" 

While  these  things  were  passing,  a  merry  scene  was  10 
going  forward  in  the  area  of  cheerful  light,  beside  the 
spring  and  before  the  door  of  the  hut.    A  number  of  the 
youth  of  the  village,  young  men  and  girls,  had  hurried  up 
the  hillside,  impelled  by  curiosity  to  see  Ethan   Brand, 
the  hero  of  so  many  a  legend  familiar  to  their  childhood.  15 
Finding   nothing,    however,   very   remarkable   in   his   as- 
pect,— nothing  but  a  sun-burnt  wayfarer,  in  plain  garb 
and  dusty  shoes,  who  sat  looking  into  the  fire,  as  if  he 
fancied   pictures  among   the   coals, — these   young   people 
speedily  grew  tired  of  observing  him.     As  it  happened,  20 
there  was  other  amusement  at  hand.    An  old  German  Jew, 
traveling  with  a  diorama  on  his  back,  was  passing  down 
the  mountain-road  towards  the  village  just  as  the  party 
turned  aside  from  it,  and,  in  hopes  of  eking  out  the  profits 
of  the  day,  the  showman  had  kept  them  company  to  the  25 
lime-kiln. 

"  Come,  old  Dutchman,"  cried  one  of  the  young  men, 
"  let  us  see  your  pictures,  if  you  can  swear  they  are  worth 
looking  at !  " 

"  O,  yes,  Captain,"  answered  the  Jew, — whether  as  a  30 
matter  of  courtesy  or  craft,   he  styled   everybody  Cap- 
tain,— "  I  shall  show  you,  indeed,  some  very  superb  pic- 
tures!" 

So,  placing  his  box  in  a  proper  position,  he  invited  the 


2OO  The  Short  Story 

young  men  and  girls  to  look  through  the  glass  orifices  of 
the  machine,  and  proceeded  to  exhibit  a  series  of  the  most 
outrageous  scratchings  and  daubings,  as  specimens  of  the 
fine  arts,  that  ever  an  itinerant  showman  had  the  face 
5  to  impose  upon  his  circle  of  spectators.  The  pictures  were 
worn  out,  moreover,  tattered,  full  of  cracks  and  wrinkles, 
dingy  with  tobacco-smoke,  and  otherwise  in  a  most  pitiable 
condition.  Some  purported  to  be  cities,  public  edifices,  and 
ruined  castles  in  Europe;  others  represented  Napoleon's 

10  battles  and  Nelson's  sea-fights;  and  in  the  midst  of  these 
would  be  seen  a  gigantic,  brown,  hairy  hand, — which 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  the  Hand  of  Destiny, 
though,  in  truth,  it  was  only  the  showman's, — pointing  its 
forefinger  to  various  scenes  of  the  conflict,  while  its 

15  owner  gave  historical  illustrations.  When,  with  much 
merriment  at  its  abominable  deficiency  of  merit,  the  ex- 
hibition was  concluded,  the  German  bade  little  Joe  put  his 
head  into  the  box.  Viewed  through  the  magnifying 
glasses,  the  boy's  round,  rosy  visage  assumed  the  strangest 

20  imaginable  aspect  of  an  immense  Titanic  child,  the 
mouth  grinning  broadly,  and  the  eyes  and  every  other 
feature  overflowing  with  fun  at  the  joke.  Suddenly, 
however,  that  merry  face  turned  pale,  and  its  expression 
changed  to  horror,  for  this  easily  impressed  and  excitable 

25  child  had  become  sensible  that  the  eye  of  Ethan  Brand 
was  fixed  upon  him  through  the  glass. 

"  You  make  the  little  man  to  be  afraid,  Captain,'* 
said  the  German  Jew,  turning  up  the  dark  and  strong 
outline  of  his  visage,  from  his  stooping  posture.  "  But 

30  look  again,  and,  by  chance,  I  shall  cause  you  to  see  some- 
what that  is  very  fine,  upon  my  word !  " 

Ethan  Brand  gazed  into  the  box  for  an  instant,  and  then 
starting  back,  looked  fixedly  at  the  German.  What  had  he 
seen  ?  Nothing,  apparently ;  for  a  curious  youth,  who  had 


Ethan  Brand  201 

peeped  in  almost  at  the  same  moment,  beheld  only  a  va- 
cant space  of  canvas. 

"  I  remember  you  now,"  muttered  Ethan  Brand  to  the 
showman. 

"  Ah,   Captain,"   whispered   the  Jew  of   Nuremburg,  5 
with  a  dark  smile,  "  I  find  it  to  be  a  heavy  matter  in  my 
show-box, — this  Unpardonable  Sin!     By  my  faith,  Cap- 
tain, it  has  wearied  my  shoulders  this  long  day,  to  carry 
it  over  the  mountain." 

"  Peace,"  answered  Ethan  Brand,  sternly,  "  or  get  thee  10 
into  the  furnace  yonder!  " 

The  Jew's  exhibition  had  scarcely  concluded,  when 
a  great,  elderly  dog, — who  seemed  to  be  his  own  master, 
as  no  person  in  the  company  laid  claim  to  him, — saw  fit  to 
render  himself  the  object  of  public  notice.  Hitherto,  he  15 
had  shown  himself  a  very  quiet,  well-disposed  old  dog, 
going  round  from  one  to  another,  and,  by  way  of  being 
sociable,  offering  his  rough  head  to  be  patted  by  any 
kindly  hand  that  would  take  so  much  trouble.  But 
now,  all  of  a  sudden,  this  grave  and  venerable  quadruped,  20 
of  his  own  mere  motion,  and  without  the  slightest  sug- 
gestion from  anybody  else,  began  to  run  round  after  his 
tail,  which,  to  heighten  the  absurdity  of  the  proceeding, 
was  a  great  deal  shorter  than  it  should  have  been.  Never 
was  seen  such  headlong  eagerness  in  pursuit  of  an  object  25 
that  could  not  possibly  be  attained ;  never  was  heard  such 
a  tremendous  outbreak  of  growling,  snarling,  barking, 
and  snapping,— as  if  one  end  of  the  ridiculous  brute's 
body  were  at  deadly  and  most  unforgivable  enmity  with 
the  other.  Faster  and  faster,  round  about  went  the  cur;  30 
and  faster  and  still  faster  fled  the  unapproachable  brevity 
of  his  tail ;  and  louder  and  fiercer  grew  his  yells  of  rage 
and  animosity;  until,  utterly  exhausted,  and  as  far  from 
the  goal  as  ever,  the  foolish  old  dog  ceased  his  perform- 


2O2  The  Short  Story 

ance  as  suddenly  as  he  had  begun  it.  The  next  moment 
he  was  as  mild,  quiet,  sensible,  and  respectable  in  his  de- 
portment, as  when  he  first  scraped  acquaintance  with  the 
company. 

5  As  may  be  supposed,  the  exhibition  was  greeted  with 
universal  laughter,  clapping  of  hands,  and  shouts  of  en- 
core, to  which  the  canine  performer  responded  by  wag- 
ging all  that  there  was  to  wag  of  his  tail,  but  appeared 
totally  unable  to  repeat  his  very  successful  effort  to 

10  amuse  the  spectators. 

Meanwhile,  Ethan  Brand  had  resumed  his  seat  upon 
the  log,  and  moved,  it  might  be,  by  a  perception  of  some 
remote  analogy  between  his  own  case  and  that  of  this 
self-pursuing  cur,  he  broke  into  the  awful  laugh,  which, 

15  more  than  any  other  token,  expressed  the  condition  of 
his  inward  being.  From  that  moment,  the  merriment  of 
the  party  was  at  an  end ;  they  stood  aghast,  dreading  lest 
the  inauspicious  sound  should  be  reverberated  around  the 
horizon,  and  that  mountain  would  thunder  it  to  moun- 

20  tain,  and  so  the  horror  be  prolonged  upon  their  ears. 
Then,  whispering  one  to  another  that  it  was  late, — that 
the  moon  was  almost  down, — that  the  August  night  was 
growing  chill, — they  hurried  homewards,  leaving  the  lime- 
burner  and  little  Joe  to  deal  as  they  might  with  their 

25  unwelcome  guest.  Save  for  these  three  human  beings,  the 
open  space  on  the  hillside  was  a  solitude,  set  in  a  vast 
gloom  of  forest.  Beyond  that  darksome  verge,  the  fire- 
light glimmered  on  the  stately  trunks  and  almost  black 
foliage  of  pines,  intermixed  with  the  lighter  verdure  of 

30  sapling  oaks,  maples,  and  poplars,  while  here  and  there 
lay  the  gigantic  corpses  of  dead  trees,  decaying  on  the 
leaf-strewn  soil.  And  it  seemed  to  little  Joe — a  timorous 
and  imaginative  child — that  the  silent  forest  was  holding 
its  breath,  until  some  fearful  thing  should  happen. 


Ethan  Brand  203 

Ethan  Brand  thrust  more  wood  into  the  fire,  and  closed 
the  door  of  the  kiln;  then  looking  over  his  shoulder  at 
the  lirne-burner  and  his  son,  he  bade,  rather  than  ad- 
vised, them  to  rest. 

"  For  myself,  I  cannot  sleep,"  said  he.     "  I  have  mat-  5 
ters  that  it  concerns  me  to  meditate  upon.     I  will  watch 
the  fire,  as  I  used  to  do  in  the  old  time." 

"  And  call  the  devil  out  of  the  furnace  to  keep  you 
company,  I  suppose,"  muttered  Bartram,  who  had  been 
making  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  black  bottle  above-  10 
mentioned.  "  But  watch,  if  you  like,  and  call  as  many 
devils  as  you  like!  For  my  part,  I  shall  be  all  the  better 
for  a  snooze.  Come,  Joe!  " 

As  the  boy  followed  his  father  into  the  hut,  he  looked 
back  at  the  wayfarer,  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  15 
for  his  tender  spirit  had  an  intuition  of  the  bleak  and  ter- 
rible loneliness  in  which  this  man  had  enveloped  himself. 

When  they  had  gone,  Ethan  Brand  sat  listening  to  the 
crackling  of  the  kindled  wood,  and  looking  at  the  little 
spirts  of  fire  that  issued  through  the  chinks  of  the  door.  20 
These  trifles,  however,  once  so  familiar,  had  but  the  slight- 
est hold  of  his  attention,  while  deep  within  his  mind  he 
was  reviewing  the  gradual  but  marvelous  change  that  had 
been  wrought  upon  him  by  the  search  to  which  he  had 
devoted  himself.  He  remembered  how  the  night  dew  had  25 
fallen  upon  him, — how  the  dark  forest  had  whispered  to 
him, — how  the  stars  had  gleamed  upon  him — a  simple  and 
loving  man,  watching  his  fire  in  the  years  gone  by,  and 
ever  musing  as  it  burned.  He  remembered  with  what 
tenderness,  with  what  love  and  sympathy  for  mankind,  30 
and  what  pity  for  human  guilt  and  woe,  he  had  first 
begun  to  contemplate  those  ideas  which  afterwards  became 
the  inspiration  of  his  life ;  with  what  reverence  he  had 
then  looked  into  the  heart  of  man,  viewing  it  as  a  temple 


2O4  The  Short  Story 

originally  divine,  and,  however  desecrated,  still  to  be  held 
sacred  by  a  brother ;  with  what  awful  fear  he  had  depre- 
cated the  success  of  his  pursuit,  and  prayed  that  the  Un- 
pardonable Sin  might  never  be  revealed  to  him.'  Then 
5  ensued  that  vast  intellectual  development,  which,  in  its 
progress,  disturbed  the  counterpoise  between  his  mind  and 
heart.  The  Idea  that  possessed  his  life  had  operated  as  a 
means  of  education ;  it  had  gone  on  cultivating  his  powers 
to  the  highest  point  of  which  they  were  susceptible ;  it  had 

10  raised  him  from  the  level  of  an  unlettered  laborer  to 
stand  on  a  starlit  eminence,  whither  the  philosophers  of 
the  earth,  laden  with  the  lore  of  universities,  might  vainly 
strive  to  clamber  after  him.  So  much  for  the  intellect! 
But  where  was  the  heart  ?  That,  indeed,  had  withered — 

15  had  contracted — had  hardened — had  perished !  It  had 
ceased  to  partake  of  the  universal  throb.  He  had  lost 
his  hold  of  the  magnetic  chain  of  humanity.  He  was  no 
longer  a  brother-man,  opening  the  chambers  or  the  dun- 
geons of  our  common  nature  by  the  key  of  holy  sympathy, 

20  which  gave  him  a  right  to  share  in  all  its  secrets ;  he  was 
now  a  cold  observer,  looking  on  mankind  as  the  subject 
of  his  experiment,  and,  at  length,  converting  man  and 
woman  to  be  his  puppets,  and  pulling  the  wires  that  moved 
them  to  such  degrees  of  crime  as  wTere  demanded  for  his 

25  study. 

Thus  Ethan  Brand  became  a  fiend.  He  began  to  be 
so  from  the  moment  that  his  moral  nature  had  ceased  to 
keep  the  pace  of  improvement  with  his  intellect.  And  now, 
as  his  highest  effort  and  inevitable  development, — as  the 

30  bright  and  gorgeous  flower,  and  rich,  delicious  fruit  of  his 
life's  labor, — he  had  produced  the  Unpardonable  Sin! 

"  What  more  have  I  to  seek  ?  What  more  to 
achieve?"  said  Ethan  Brand  to  himself.  "My  task  is 
done,  and  well  done!  " 


Ethan  Brand  205 

Starting  from  the  log  with  a  certain  alacrity  in  his 
gait,  and  ascending  the  hillock  of  earth  that  was  raised 
against  the  stone  circumference  of  the  lime-kiln,  he  thus 
reached  the  top  of  the  structure.  It  was  a  space  of  perhaps 
ten  feet  across,  from  edge  to  edge,  presenting  a  view  of  5 
the  upper  surface  of  the  immense  mass  of  broken  marble 
wjth  which  the  kiln  was  heaped.  All  these  innumerable 
blocks  and  fragments  of  marble  were  red-hot  and  vividly 
on  fire,  sending  up  great  spouts  of  blue  flame,  which 
quivered  aloft  and  danced  madly,  as  within  a  magic  circle,  10 
and  sank  and  rose  again,  with  continual  and  multitudinous 
activity.  As  the  lonely  man  bent  forward  over  this  ter- 
rible body  of  fire,  the  blasting  heat  smote  up  against  his 
person  with  a  breath  that,  it  might  be  supposed,  would 
have  scorched  and  shriveled  him  up  in  a  moment.  15 

Ethan  Brand  stood  erect,  and  raised  his  arms  on  high. 
The  blue  flames  played  upon  his  face,  and  imparted  the 
wild  and  ghastly  light  which  alone  could  have  suited  its 
expression ;  it  was  that  of  a  fiend  on  the  verge  of  plunging 
into  his  gulf  of  intensest  torment.  20 

"  O  Mother  Earth,"  cried  he,  "  who  art  no  more  my 
Mother,  and  into  whose  bosom  this  frame  shall  never  be 
resolved !  O  mankind,  whose  brotherhood  I  have  cast 
off,  and  trampled  thy  great  heart  beneath  my  feet!  O 
stars  of  heaven,  that  shone  on  me  of  old,  as  if  to  light  25 
me  onward  and  upward! — farewell  all,  and  forever! 
Come,  deadly  element  of  Fire, — henceforth  my  familiar 
friend!  Embrace  me,  as  I  do  thee!  " 

That  night  the  sound  of  a  fearful  peal  of  laughter 
rolled  heavily  through  the  sleep  of  the  lime-burner  and  his  30 
little  son ;  dim  shapes  of  horror  and  anguish  haunted  their 
dreams,  and  seemed  still  present  in  the  rude  hovel,  when 
they  opened  their  eyes  to  the  daylight. 

"Up,  boy,  up!"  cried  the  lime-burner,  staring  about 


2o6  The  Short  Story 

him.  "  Thank  Heaven,  the  night  is  gone,  at  last ;  and 
rather  than  pass  such  another,  I  would  watch  my  lime- 
kiln, wide  awake,  for  a  twelvemonth.  This  Ethan  Brand, 
with  his  humbug  of*  an  Unpardonable  Sin,  has  done  me 
$  no  such  mighty  favor,  in  taking  my  place!  " 

He  issued  from  the  hut,  followed  by  little  Joe,  who 
kept  fast  hold  of  his  father's  hand.  The  early  sunshine 
was  already  pouring  its  gold  upon  the  mountain-tops;  and 
though  the  valleys  were  still  in  shadow,  they  smiled 

10  cheerfully  in  the  promise  of  the  bright  day  that  was 
hastening  onward.  The  village,  completely  shut  in  by 
hills,  which  swelled  away  gently  about  it,  looked  as  if  it 
had  rested  peacefully  in  the  hollow  of  the  great  hand  of 
Providence.  Every  dwelling  was  distinctly  visible ;  the 

15  little  spires  of  the  two  churches  pointed  upwards,  and 
caught  a  fore-glimmering  of  brightness  from  the  sun-gilt 
skies  upon  their  gilded  weather-cocks.  The  tavern  was 
astir,  and  the  figure  of  the  old,  smoke-dried  stage-agent, 
cigar  in  mouth,  was  seen  beneath  the  stoop.  Old  Gray- 

20  lock  was  glorified  with  a  golden  cloud  upon  his  head. 
Scattered  likewise  over  the  breasts  of  the  surrounding 
mountains,  there  were  heaps  of  hoary  mist,  in  fantastic 
shapes,  some  of  them  far  down  into  the  valley,  others 
high  up  towards  the  summits,  and  still  others,  of  the  same 

25  family  of  mist  or  cloud,  hovering  in  the  gold  radiance 
of  the  upper  atmosphere.  Stepping  from  one  to  another 
of  the  clouds  that  rested  on  the  hills,  and  thence  to  the 
loftier  brotherhood  that  sailed  in  air,  it  seemed  almost 
as  if  a  mortal  man  might  thus  ascend  into  the  heavenly 

30  region.  Earth  was  so  mingled  with  sky  that  it  was  a 
day-dream  to  look  at  it. 

To  supply  that  charm  of  the  familiar  and  homely, 
which  Nature  so  readily  adopts  into  a  scene  like  this, 
the  stage-coach  was  rattling  down  the  mountain-road,  and 


Ethan  Brand  207 

the  driver  sounded  his  horn,  while  echo  caught  up  the 
notes,  and  intertwined  them  into  a  rich  and  varied  and 
elaborate  harmony,  of  which  the  original  performer  could 
lay  claim  to  little  share.  The  great  hills  played  a  con- 
cert among  themselves,  each  contributing  a  strain  of  airy  5 
sweetness. 

Little  Joe's  face  brightened  at  once. 

"  Dear  father,"  cried  he,  skipping  cheerily  to  and  fro, 
"  that  strange  man  is  gone,  and  the  sky  and  the  moun- 
tains all  seem  glad  of  it."  10 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  lime-burner,  with  an  oath,  "  but 
he  has  let  the  fire  go  down,  and  no  thanks  to  him  if  five 
hundred  bushels  of  lime  are  not  spoiled.  If  I  catch  the 
fellow  hereabouts  again,  I  shall  feel  like  tossing  him  into 
the  furnace!  "  15 

With  his  long  pole  in  his  hand,  he  ascended  to  the 
top  of  the  kiln.  After  a  moment's  pause,  he  called  to  his 
son. 

"  Come  up  here,  Joe !  "  said  he. 

So   little  Joe   ran   up   the   hillock,   and   stood   by   his  20 
father's   side.   The   marble   was   all   burnt   into   perfect, 
snow-white  lime.     But  on  its  surface,  in  the  midst  of  the 
circle, — snow-white   too,   and   thoroughly  converted   into 
lime, — lay  a  human  skeleton,  in  the  attitude  of  a  person 
who,  after  long  toil,  lies  down  to  long  repose.     Within  25 
the  ribs — strange  to  say — was  the  shape  of  a  human  heart. 

"Was   the   fellow's   heart    made   of   marble?"    cried 
Bartram,  in  some  perplexity  at  this  phenomenon.     "  At 
any  rate,  it  is  burnt  into  what  looks  like  special  good 
lime;  and  taking  all  the  bones  together,  my  kiln  is  half  30 
a  bushel  the  richer  for  him." 

So  saying,  the  rude  lime-burner  lifted  his  pole,  and, 
letting  it  fall  upon  the  skeleton,  the  relics  of  Ethan 
Brand  were  crumbled  into  fragments. 


RAB  AND  HIS  FRIENDS  * 

BY  JOHN  BROWN 

FOUR-AND-THIRTY  years  ago,  Bob  Ainslie  and  I  were 
coming  up  Infirmary  Street  from  the  Edinburgh  High 
School  our  heads  together,  and  our  arms  intertwisted,  as 
only  lovers  and  boys  know  how,  or  why. 

5  When  we  got  to  the  top  of  the  street,  and  turned 
north,  we  espied  a  crowd  at  the  Tron  Church.  "  A  dog- 
fight!" shouted  Bob,  and  was  off;  and  so  was  I,  both 
of  us  all  but  praying  that  it  might  not  be  over  before 
we  got  up!  And  is  not  this  boy-nature?  and  human 

10  nature  too?  and  don't  we  all  wish  a  house  on  fire  not  to 
be  out  before  we  see  it?  Dogs  like  fighting;  old  Isaac 
says  they  "  delight  "  in  it,  and  for  the  best  of  all  rea- 
sons; and  boys  are  not  cruel  because  they  like  to  see  the 
fight.  They  see  three  of  the  great  cardinal  virtues  of 

15  dog  or  man — courage,  endurance,  and  skill — in  intense 
action.  This  is  very  different  from  a  love  of  making  dogs 
fight,  and  enjoying,  and  aggravating,  and  making  gain  by 
their  pluck.  A  boy,  be  he  ever  so  fond  himself  of  fight- 
ing, if  he  be  a  good  boy,  hates  and  despises  all  this,  but 

20  he  would  have  run  off  with  Bob  and  me  fast  enough : 
it  is  a  natural,  and  a  not  wicked  interest,  that  all  boys 
and  men  have  in  witnessing  intense  energy  in  action. 

*  DR.  JOHN  BROWN  (1810-1882),  author  of  this  study  of 
pathetic  personality,  was  a  Scottish  physician.  This  story  was 
included  in  a  collection  of  sketches  and  papers  entitled  Hor<e 
Subseciva,  published  in  1858.  See  also  pp.  45-46. 

208 


Rab  and  His  Friends  209 

Does  any  curious  and  finely  ignorant  woman  wish  to 
know  how  Bob's  eye  at  a  glance  announced  a  dog-fight 
to  his  brain?  He  did  not,  he  could  not  see  the  dogs 
fighting;  it  was  a  flash  of  an  inference,  a  rapid  induction. 
The  crowd  round  a  couple  of  dogs  fighting  is  a  crowd  5 
masculine  mainly,  with  an  occasional  active,  compassion- 
ate woman,  fluttering  wildly  round  the  outside,  and  using 
her  tongue  and  her  hands  freely  upon  the  men,  as  so 
many  "  brutes " ;  it-  is  a  crowd  annular,  compact,  and 
mobile;  a  crowd  centripetal,  having  its  eyes  and  its  heads  10 
all  bent  downwards  and  inwards,  to  one  common  focus. 

Well,  Bob  and  I  are  up,  and  find  it  is  not  over:  a 
small,  thoroughbred,  white  bull-terrier  is  busy  throttling 
a  large  shepherd's  dog,  unaccustomed  to  war,  but  not  to 
be  trifled  with.  They  are  hard  at  it;  the  scientific  little  15 
fellow  doing  his  work  in  great  style,  his  pastoral  enemy 
fighting  wildly,  but  with  the  sharpest  of  teeth  and  a 
great  courage.  Science  and  breeding,  however,  soon  had 
their  own;  the  Game  Chicken,  as  the  premature  Bob 
called  him,  working  his  way  up,  took  his  final  grip  of  poor  20 
Yarrow's  throat, — and  he  lay  gasping  and  done  for.  His 
master,  a  brown,  handsome,  big  young  shepherd  from 
Tweedsmuir,  would  have  liked  to  have  knocked  down  any 
man,  would  "  drink  up  Esil,  or  eat  a  crocodile,"  for 
that  part,  if  he  had  a  chance:  it  was  no  use  kicking  the  25 
little  dog;  that  would  only  make  him  hold  the  closer. 
Many  were  the  means  shouted  out  in  mouthfuls,  of  the 
best  possible  ways  of  ending  it.  "  Water !  "  but  there  was 
none  near,  and  many  cried  for  it  who  might  have  got  it 
from  the  well  at  Blackfriars  Wynd.  "  Bite  the  tail !  "  30 
and  a  large,  vague,  benevolent  middle-aged  man,  more 
desirous  than  wise,  with  some  struggle  got  the  bushy  end 
of  Yarrow's  tail  into  his  ample  mouth,  and  bit  it  with  all 
his  might.  This  was  more  than  enough  for  the  much- 


sio  The  Short  Story 

enduring,  much-perspiring  shepherd,  who,  with  a  gleam 
of  joy  over  his  broad  visage,  delivered  a  terrific  facer  upon 
our  large,  vague,  benevolent,  middle-aged  friend, — who 
went  down  like  a  shot. 

5  Still  the  Chicken  holds;  death  not  far  off.  "  Snuff!  a 
pinch  of  snuff!  "  observed  a  calm,  highly-dressed  young 
buck,  with  an  eye-glass  in  his  eye.  "  Snuff,  indeed !  " 
growled  the  angry  crowd,  affronted  and  glaring.  "  Snuff! 
a  pinch  of  snuff!"  again  observes 'the  buck,  but  with 

10  more  urgency ;  whereon  were  produced  several  open  boxes, 
and  from  a  mull  which  may  have  been  at  Culloden,  he 
took  a  pinch,  knelt  down,  and  presented  it  to  the  nose  of 
the  Chicken.  The  laws  of  physiology  and  of  snuff  take 
their  course;  the  Chicken  sneezes,  and  Yarrow  is  free! 

15  The  young  pastoral  giant  stalks  off  with  Yarrow  in 
his  arms, — comforting  him. 

But  the  Bull  Terrier's  blood  is  up,  and  his  soul  un- 
satisfied; he  grips  the  first  dog  he  meets,  and  discovering 
she  is  not  a  dog,  in  Homeric  phrase,  he  makes  a  brief  sort 

20  of  amende,  and  is  off.  The  boys,  with  Bob  and  me  at 
their  head,  are  after  him:  down  Niddry  Street  he  goes, 
bent  on  mischief;  up  the  Cowgate  like  an  arrow, — Bob 
and  I,  and  our  small  men,  panting  behind. 

There  under  the  single  arch  of  the  South  Bridge,  is  a 

25  huge  mastiff,  sauntering  down  the  middle  of  the  cause- 
way, as  if  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets:  he  is  old,  gray, 
brindled,  as  big  as  a  little  Highland  bull,  and  has  the 
Shakespearean  dewlaps  shaking  as  he  goes. 

The  Chicken  makes  straight  at  him,  and  fastens  on 

30  his  throat.  To  our  astonishment,  the  great  creature  does 
nothing  but  stand  still,  hold  himself  up,  and  roar, — 
yes,  roar;  a  long,  serious,  remonstrative  roar.  How  is 
this?  Bob  and  I  are  up  to  them.  He  is  muzzled!  The 
bailies  had  proclaimed  a  general  muzzling,  and  his  mas- 


Rab  and  His  Friends  211 

ter  studying  strength  and  economy  mainly,  had  encom- 
passed his  huge  jaws  in  a  home-made  apparatus,  con- 
structed out  of  the  leather  of  some  ancient  breechin.  His 
mouth  was  open  as  far  it  could ;  his  lips  curled  up  in 
rage, — a  sort  of  terrible  grin;  his  teeth  gleaming,  ready,  5 
from  out  the  darkness;  the  strap  across  his  mouth  tense 
as  a  bowstring;  his  whole  frame  stiff  with  indignation 
and  surprise ;  his  roar  asking  us  all  round,  "  Did  you  ever 
see  the  like  of  this?"  He  looked  a  statue  of  anger  and 
astonishment,  done  in  Aberdeen  granite.  10 

We  soon  had  a  crowd:  the  Chicken  held  on.  "A 
knife !  "  cried  Bob ;  and  a  cobbler  gave  him  his  knife :  you 
know  the  kind  of  knife,  worn  away  obliquely  to  a  point 
and  always  keen.  I  put  its  edge  to  the  tense  leather;  it 
ran  before  it;  and  then! — one  sudden  jerk  of  that  enor-  15 
mous  head,  a  sort  of  dirty  mist  about  his  mouth,  no 
noise, — and  the  bright  and  fierce  little  fellow  is  dropped, 
limp  and  dead.  A  solemn  pause:  this  was  more  than 
any  of  us  had  bargained  for.  I  turned  the  little  fellow 
over,  and  saw  he  was  quite  dead ;  the  mastiff  had  taken  20 
him  by  the  small  of  the  back  like  a  rat,  and  broken  it. 

He  looked  down  at  his  victim  appeased,  ashamed,  and 
amazed ;  snuffed  him  all  over,  stared  at  him,  and  taking 
a  sudden  thought,  turned  round  and  trotted  off.  Bob 
took  the  dead  dog  up,  and  said,  "  John,  we'll  bury  him  25 
after  tea."  "  Yes,"  said  I,  and  was  off  after  the  mastiff. 
He  made  up  the  Cowgate  at  a  rapid  swing;  he  had  for- 
gotten some  engagement.  He  turned  up  the  Candle- 
maker  Row,  and  stopped  at  the  Harrow  Inn. 

There  was  a  carrier's  cart  ready  to  start,  and  a  keen,  30 
thin,  impatient,  black-a-vised  little  man,  his  hand  at  his 
gray  horse's  head,  looking  about  angrily  for  something. 

"Rab,  ye  thief!"  said  he,  aiming  a  kick  at  my  great 
friend,  who  drew  cringing  up,   and  avoiding  the  heavy 


212  The  Short  Story 

shoe  with  more  agility  than  dignity,  and  watching  his 
master's  eye,  slunk  dismayed  under  the  cart, — his  ears 
down,  and  as  much  as  he  had  of  tail  down  too. 

What  a  man  this  must  be, — thought  I, — to  whom  my 

5  tremendous  hero  turns  tail!  The  carrier  saw  the  muz- 
zle hanging,  cut  and  useless,  from  his  neck,  and  I  eagerly 
told  him  the  story,  which  Bob  and  I  always  thought,  and 
still  think,  Homer,  or  King  David,  or  Sir  Walter  alone, 
were  worthy  to  rehearse.  The  severe  little  man  was 

10  mitigated,  and  condescended  to  say,  "  Rab,  my  man,  puir 
Rabbie," — whereupon  the  stump  of  a  tail  rose  up,  the 
ears  were  cocked,  the  eyes  filled,  and  were  comforted;  the 
two  friends  were  reconciled.  "  Hupp!  "  and  a  stroke  of 
the  whip  were  given  to  Jess;  and  off  went  the  three. 

15  Bob  and  I  buried  the  Game  Chicken  that  night  (we 
had  not  much  of  a  tea)  in  the  back-green  of  his  house 
in  Melville  Street,  No.  17,  with  considerable  gravity 
and  silence;  and  being  at  the  time  in  the  Iliad,  and,  like 
all  boys,  Trojans,  we  called  him  Hector,  of  course. 


20  Six  years  have  passed, — a  long  time  for  a  boy  and  a 
dog;  Bob  Ainslie  is  off  to  the  wars;  I  am  a  medical 
student,  and  clerk  at  Minto  House  Hospital.  Rab  I  saw 
almost  every  week,  on  the  Wednesday ;  and  we  had  much 
pleasant  intimacy.  I  found  the  way  to  his  heart  by  fre- 

25  quent  scratching  of  his  huge  head,  and  an  occasional  bone. 
When  I  did  not  notice  him  he  would  plant  himself 
straight  before  me,  and  stand  wagging  that  bud  of  a 
tail,  and  looking  up,  with  his  head  a  little  to  the  one 
side.  His  master  I  occasionally  saw;  he  used  to  call  me 

30  "  Maister  John,"  but  was  laconic  as  any  Spartan, 


Rab  and  His   Friends  213 

One  fine  October  afternoon,  I  was  leaving  the  hospital, 
when  I  saw  the  large  gate  open,  and  in  walked  Rab,  with 
that  great  and  easy  saunter  of  his.  He  looked  as  if 
taking  general  possession  of  the  place;  like  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  entering  a  subdued  city,  satiated  with  vie-  5 
tory  and  peace.  After  him  came  Jess,  now  white  from 
age,  with  her  cart ;  and  in  it  a  woman,  carefully  wrapped 
up, — the  carrier  leading  the  horse  anxiously,  and  looking 
back.  When  he  saw  me,  James  (for  his  name  was 
James  Noble)  made  a  curt  and  grotesque  "  boo,"  and  10 
said,  "  Maister  John,  this  is  the  mistress;  she's  got  trou- 
ble in  her  breest, — some  kind  o'  an  income  we're  thinkin'." 

By  this  time  I  saw  the  woman's  face;  she  was  sitting 
on  a  sack  filled  with  straw,  her  husband's  plaid  round 
her,  and  his  big-coat,  with  its  large  white  metal  buttons,  15 
over  her  feet. 

I  never  saw  a  more  unforgettable  face, — pale,  serious, 
lonely*  delicate,  sweet,  without  being  at  all  what  we 
call  fine.  She  looked  sixty,  and  had  on  a  mutch,  white  as 
snow,  with  its  black  ribbon;  her  silvery,  smooth  hair  20 
setting  off  her  dark-gray  eyes, — eyes  such  as  one  sees  only 
twice  or  thrice  in  a  lifetime,  full  of  suffering,  full  also  of 
the  overcoming  of  it:  her  eyebrows  black  and  delicate, 
and  her  mouth  firm,  patient,  and  contented,  which  few 
mouths  ever  are.  25 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful  counte- 
nance, or  one  more  subdued  to  settled  quiet.  "  Ailie," 
said  James,  "this  is  Maister  John,  the  young  doctor; 
Rab's  freend,  ye  ken.  We  often  speak  aboot  you,  doctor." 
She  smiled,  and  made  a  movement,  but  said  nothing;  and  30 
prepared  to  come  down,  putting  her  plaid  aside  and 
rising.  Had  Solomon,  in  all  his  glory,  been  handing 

•It  is  not  easy  giving  this  look  by  one  word;  it  was  expres- 
sive of  her  being  so  much  of  her   life  alone. 


214  The  Short  Story 

down  the  Queen  of  Sheba  at  his  palace  gate,  he  could  not 
have  done  it  more  daintily,  more  tenderly,  more  like  a 
gentleman,  than  did  James  the  Howgate  carrier,  when  he 
lifted  down  Ailie  his  wife.  The  contrast  of  his  small, 
5  swarthy,  weather-beaten,  keen,  worldly  face  to  hers — pale, 
subdued,  and  beautiful — was  something  wonderful.  Rab 
looked  on  concerned  and  puzzled,  but  ready  for  anything 
that  might  turn  up, — were  it  to  strangle  the  nurse,  the 
porter,  or  even  me.  Ailie  and  he  seemed  great  friends. 

10  "  As  I  was  sayin',  she's  got  a  kind  o'  trouble  in  her 
breest,  doctor;  wull  ye  tak'  a  look  at  it?"  We  walked 
into  the  consulting-room,  all  four;  Rab  grim  and  comic, 
willing  to  be  happy  and  confidential  if  cause  could  be 
shown,  willing  also  to  be  the  reverse,  on  the  same  terms. 

15  Ailie  sat  down,  undid  her  open  gown  and  her  lawn 
handkerchief  round  her  neck,  and  without  a  word  showed 
me  her  right  breast.  I  looked  at  and  examined  it  care- 
fully,— she  and  James  watching  me,  and  Rab  eying  all 
three.  What  could  I  say?  there  it  was,  that  had  once 

20  been  so  soft,  so  shapely,  so  white,  so  gracious  and  bounti- 
ful, so  "  full  of  all  blessed  conditions," — hard  as  a  stone, 
a  center  of  horrid  pain,  making  that  pale  face,  with  its 
gray,  lucid,  reasonable  eyes,  and  its  sweet,  resolved  mouth, 
express  the  full  measure  of  suffering  overcome.  Why  was 

25  that  gentle,  modest,  sweet  woman,  clean  and  lovable, 
condemned  by  God  to  bear  such  a  burden? 

I  got  her  away  to  bed.  "  May  Rab  and  me  bide  ?  " 
said  James.  "  You  may ;  and  Rab,  if  he  will  behave 
himself."  "  I'se  warrant  he's  do  that,  doctor";  and  in 

30  slank  the  faithful  beast.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him. 
There  are  no  such  dogs  now.  He  belonged  to  a  lost 
tribe.  As  I  have  said,  he  was  brindled  and  gray  like 
Rubislaw  granite;  his  hair  short,  hard,  and  close,  like  a 
lion's ;  his  body  thick-set,  like  a  little  bull, — a  sort  of  com- 


Rab  and  His  Friends  215 

pressed  Hercules  of  a  dog.  He  must  have  been  ninety 
pounds'  weight,  at  the  least;  he  had  a  large  blunt  head; 
his  muzzle  black  as  night,  his  mouth  blacker  than  any 
night,  a  tooth  or  two — being  all  he  had — gleaming  out  of 
his  jaws  of  darkness.  His  head  was  scarred  with  the  5 
records  of  old  wounds,  a  sort  of  series  of  fields  of  battle 
all  over  it;  one  eye  out,  one  ear  cropped  as  close  as  was 
Archbishop  Leighton's  father's;  the  remaining  eye  had 
the  power  of  two ;  and  above  it,  and  in  constant  communi- 
cation with  it,  wras  a  tattered  rag  of  an  ear,  which  10 
was  forever  unfurling  itself,  like  an  old  flag;  and  then 
that  bud  of  a  tail,  about  one  inch  long,  if  it  could  in  any 
sense  be  said  to  be  long,  being  as  broad  as  long, — the 
mobility,  the  instantaneousness  of  that  bud  were  very 
funny  and  surprising,  and  its  expressive  twinklings  and  15 
winkings,  the  intercommunications  between  the  eye,  the 
ear,  and  it,  were  of  the  oddest  and  swiftest. 

Rab  had  the  dignity  and  simplicity  of  great  size;  and 
having  fought  his  way  all  along  the  road  to  absolute  su- 
premacy,  he  was  as  mighty   in   his  own   line  as  Julius  20 
Caesar  or  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  had  the  gravity  * 
of  all  great  fighters. 

You  must  have  often  observed  the  likeness  of  certain 
men    to   certain   animals,   and   of   certain    dogs   to   men. 
Now,   I   never  looked   at   Rab  without  thinking  of  the  25 
great  Baptist  preacher,  Andrew  Fuller.f    The  same  large, 

*A  Highland  game-keeper,  when  asked  why  a  certain  ter- 
rier, of  singular  pluck,  was  so '  much  more  solemn  than  the 
other  dogs,  said,  "  O,  sir,  life's  full  o'  sairiousness  to  him, — he 
just  never  can  get  enuff  o'  fechtin'."  30 

t  Fuller  was,  in  early  life,  when  a  farmer  lad  at  Soham, 
famous  as  a  boxer;  not  quarrelsome,  but  not  without  "the 
stern  delight "  a  man  of  strength  and  courage  feels  in  their 
exercise.  Dr.  Charles  Stewart,  of  Dunearn,  whose  rare  gifts 
and  graces  as  a  physician,  a  divine,  a  scholar,  and  a  gentle-  35 


216  The  Short  Story 

heavy,  menacing,  combative,  somber,  honest  countenance^ 
the  same  deep  inevitable  eye,  the  same  look, — as  of  thunder 
asleep,  but  ready, — neither  a  dog  nor  a  man  to  be  trifled 
with. 

5  Next  day,  my  master,  the  surgeon,  examined  Ailie. 
There  was  no  doubt  it  must  kill  her,  and  soon.  It  could 
be  removed — it  might  never  return — it  would  give  her 
speedy  relief — she  should  have  it  done.  She  courtesied, 
looked  at  James,  and  said,  "When?"  'To-morrow," 

10  said  the  kind  surgeon, — a  man  of  few  words.  She  and 
James  and  Rab  and  I  retired.  I  noticed  that  he  and  she" 
spoke  little,  but  seemed  to  anticipate  everything  in  each 
other.  The  following  day,  at  noon,  the  students  came 
in,  hurrying  up  the  great  stair.  At  the  first  landing- 

15  place,  on  a  small,  well-known  blackboard,  was  a  bit  of 
paper  fastened  by  wafers,  and  many  remains  of  old 
wafers  beside  it.  On  the  paper  were  the  words, — "  An 
operation  to-day.  J.  B.  Clerk." 

Up  ran  the  youths,  eager  to  secure  good  places:  in  they 

20  crowded,  full  of  interest  and  talk.  "What's  the  case?" 
"Which  side  is  it?" 

Don't  think  them  heartless;  they  are  neither  better 
nor  worse  than  you  or  I ;  they  get  over  their  professional 
horrors,  and  into  their  proper  work, — and  in  them  pity,  as 

25  an  emotion,  ending  in  itself  or  at  best  in  tears  and  a 
long-drawn  breath,  lessens,  while  pity  as  a  motive  is 

man  live  only  hi  the  memory  of  those  few  who  knew  and  sur- 
vive him,  liked  to  tell  how  Mr.  Fuller  used  to  say,  that  when  he 
was  in  the  pulpit,  and  saw  a  buirdly  man  come  along  the  pas- 

30  sage,  he  would  instinctively  draw  himself  up,  measure  his 
imaginary  antagonist,  and  forecast  how  he  would  deal  with 
him,  his  hands  meanwhile  condensing  into  fists,  and  tending  to 
"  square."  He  must  have  been  a  hard  hitter  if  he  boxed  as 
he  preached, — what  "The  Fancy"  would  call  "an  ugly  cus- 

35  tomer." 


Rab  and  His  Friends  217 

quickened,  and  gains  power  and  purpose.     It  is  well  for 
poor  human  nature  that  it  is  so. 

The   operating   theater    is   crowded;    much    talk    and 
fun,  and  all  the  cordiality  and  stir  of  youth.     The  sur- 
geon with  his  staff  of  assistants  is  there.     In  comes  Ailie:  5 
one   look  at   her   quiets  and   abates   the   eager   students. 
That  beautiful  old  woman  is  too  much  for  them;  they  sit 
down,  and  are  dumb,  and  gaze  at  her.    These  rough  boys 
feel  the  power  of  her  presence.     She  walks  in  quickly,  but 
without  haste;  dressed  in  her  mutch,  her  neckerchief,  her  10 
white  dimity  short-gown,  her  black  bombazine  petticoat, 
showing   her   white   worsted   stockings    and    her   carpet- 
shoes.      Behind   her   was   James  with   Rab.      James   sat 
down    in   the   distance,    and   took   that   huge   and   noble 
head  between  his  knees.     Rab  looked  perplexed  and  dan-  15 
gerous;  forever  cocking  his  ear  and  dropping  it  as  fast. 

Ailie  stepped  up  on  a  seat,  and  laid  herself  on  the  table, 
as  her  friend  the  surgeon  told  her;  arranged  herself,  gave 
a  rapid  look  at  James,  shut  her  eyes,  rested  herself  on 
me,  and  took  my  hand.  The  operation  was  at  once  be-  20 
gun ;  it  was  necessarily  slow ;  and  chloroform — one  of 
God's  best  gifts  to  his  suffering  children — was  then  un- 
known. The  surgeon  did  his  work.  The  pale  face  showed 
its  pain,  but  was  still  and  silent.  Rab's  soul  was  work- 
ing within  him;  he  saw  that  something  strange  was  go-  25 
ing  on, — blood  flowing  from  his  mistress,  and  she  suffer- 
ing; his  ragged  ear  was  up,  and  importunate;  he  growled, 
and  gave  now  and  then  a  sharp,  impatient  yelp ;  he  would 
have  liked  to  have  done  something  to  that  man.  But 
James  had  him  firm,  and  gave  him  a  glower  from  time  30 
to  time,  and  an  intimation  of  a  possible  kick; — all  the 
better  for  James,  it  kept  his  eye  and  his  mind  off  Ailie. 

It  is  over:  she  is  dressed,  steps  gently  and   decently 
down  from  the  table,  looks  for  James;  then  turning  to 


218  The  Short  Story 

the  surgeon  and  the  students,  she  courtesies, — and  in  a 
low,  clear,  voice,  begs  their  pardon  if  she  has  behaved 
ill.  The  students — all  of  us — wept  like  children;  the 
surgeon  happed  her  up  carefully, — and,  resting  on  James 
5  and  me,  Ailie  went  to  her  room,  Rab  following.  We  put 
her  to  bed.  James  took  off  his  heavy  shoes,  crammed 
with  tackets,  heel-capt  and  toe-capt,  and  put  them  care- 
fully under  the  table  saying,  "  Maister  John,  I'm  for 
nane  o'  yer  strynge  nurse  bodies  for  Ailie.  I'll  be  her 

10  nurse,  and  I'll  gang  aboot  on  my  stockin'  soles  as  canny 
as  pussy."  And  so  he  did ;  and  handy  and  clever,  and 
swift  and  tender  as  any  woman,  was  that  horny-handed, 
snell,  peremptory  little  man.  Everything  she  got  he  gave 
her:  he  seldom  slept;  and  often  I  saw  his  small,  shrewd 

15  eyes  out  of  the  darkness,  fixed  on  her.  As  before,  they 
spoke  little. 

Rab  behaved  well,  never  moving,  showing  us  how 
meek  and  gentle  he  could  be,  and  occasionally,  in  his 
sleep,  letting  us  know  that  he  was,  demolishing  some  ad- 

20  versary.  He  took  a  walk  with  me  every  day,  generally 
to  the  Candlemaker  Row ;  but  he  was  somber  and  mild ; 
declined  doing  battle,  though  some  fit  cases  offered,  and 
indeed  submitted  to  sundry  indignities;  and  wras  always 
very  ready  to  turn,  and  came  faster  back,  and  trotted  up 

25  the  stair  with  much  lightness,  and  went  straight  to  that 
door. 

Jess,  the  mare,  had  been  sent,  with  her  weather-worn 
car,  to  Howgate,  and  had  doubtless  her  own  dim  and 
placid  meditations  and  confusions,  on  the  absence  of  her 

30  master  and  Rab,  and  her  unnatural  freedom  from  the 
road  and  her  cart. 

For  some  days  Ailie  did  well.  The  wound  healed 
"  by  the  first  intention  " ;  for,  as  James  said,  "  Oor  Ailie's 
skin  is  ower  clean  to  beil."  The  students  came  in  quiet 


Rab  and  His  Friends  219 

and  anxious,  and  surrounded  her  bed.  She  said  she  liked 
to  see  their  young,  honest  faces.  The  surgeon  dressed  her, 
and  spoke  to  her  in  his  own  short,  kind  way,  pitying  her 
through  his  eyes,  Rab  and  James  outside  the  circle, — 
Rab  being  now  reconciled,  and  even  cordial,  and  hav-  5 
ing  made  up  his  mind  that  as  yet  nobody  required  worry- 
ing, but,  as  you  may  suppose,  semper  paratus. 

So  far  well:  but,  four  days  after  the  operation,  my  pa- 
tient had  a  sudden  and  long  shivering,  a  "  groosin',"  as  she 
called  it.     I  saw  her  soon  after;  her  eyes  were  too  bright,   10 
her  cheek  colored ;  she  was  restless,  and  ashamed  of  being 
so;  the  balance  was  lost;  mischief  had  begun.     On  look- 
ing at  the  wound,  a  blush  of  red  told  the  secret:   her 
pulse  was  rapid,   her  breathing  anxious  and   quick,  she 
wasn't  herself,  as  she  said,  and  was  vexed  at  her  restless-  15 
ness.  We  tried  what  we  could.  James  did  everything,  was 
everywhere;  never  in  the  way,  never  out  of  it;  Rab  sub- 
sided under  the  table  into  a  dark  place,  and  was  motion- 
less, all  but  his  eye,  which  followed  every  one.     Ailie  got 
worse;  began  to  wander  in  her  mind,  gently;  was  more  20 
demonstrative  in  her  ways  to  James,  rapid  in  her  ques- 
tions,   and   sharp   at   times.      He   was   vexed,    and    said, 
"  She  was  never  that  way  afore ;  no,  never."     For  a  time 
she  knew  her  head  was  wrong,  and  was  always  asking 
our  pardon, — the  dear,  gentle  old  woman :  then  delirium  25 
set  in  strong,  without  pause.     Her  brain  gave  way,  and 
then  came  that  terrible  spectacle, — 

"The  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on  its  dim  and  perilous  way"; 

she  sang  bits  of  old  songs  and  Psalms,  stopping  suddenly,  30 
mingling  the  Psalms  of  David  and  the  diviner  words  of 
his  Son  and  Lord  with  homely  odds  and  ends  and  scraps 
of  ballads. 


22O  The  Short  Story 

Nothing  more  touching,  or  in  a  sense  more  strangely 
beautiful,  did  I  ever  witness.  Her  tremulous,  rapid,  affec- 
tionate, eager  Scotch  voice, — the  swift,  aimless,  bewildered 
mind,  the  baffled  utterance,  the  bright  and  perilous  eye; 
5  some  wild  words,  some  household  cares,  something  for 
James,  the  names  of  the  dead,  Rab  called  rapidly  and  in  a 
"  fremyt  "  voice,  and  he  starting  up  surprised,  and  slink- 
ing off  as  if  he  were  to  blame  somehow,  or  had  been 
dreaming  he  heard ;  many  eager  questions  and  beseech- 

10  ings  which  James  and  I  could  make  nothing  of,  and  on 
which  she  seemed  to  set  her  all,  and  then  sink  back  un- 
understood.  It  was  very  sad,  but  better  than  many 
things  that  are  not  called  sad.  James  hovered  about, 
put  out  and  miserable,  but  active  and  exact  as  ever ;  read 

15  to  her,  when  there  was  a  lull,  short  bits  from  the  Psalms, 
prose  and  meter,  chanting  the  later  in  his  own  rude  and 
serious  way,  showing  great  knowledge  of  the  fit  words, 
bearing  up  like  a  man,  and  doating  over  her  as  his 
"  ain  Ailie."  "  Ailie,  ma  woman !  "  "  Ma  ain  bonnie 

20  wee  dawtie!  " 

The  end  was  drawing  on :  the  golden  bowl  was  break- 
ing; the  silver  cord  was  fast  being  loosed, — that  animula 
blanduldj  vagula,  hospes,  comesque,  was  about  to  flee. 
The  body  and  the  soul — companions  for  sixty  years — were 

25  being  sundered,  and  taking  leave.  She  was  walking  alone 
through  the  valley  of  that  shadow  into  which  one  day  we 
must  all  enter — and  yet  she  was  not  alone,  for  we  know 
whose  rod  and  staff  were  comforting  her. 

One  night  she  had  fallen  quiet,  and,  as  we  hoped,  asleep; 

30  her  eyes  were  shut.  We  put  down  the  gas,  and  sat  watch- 
ing her.  Suddenly  she  sat  up  in  bed,  and  taking  a  bed- 
gown which  was  lying  on  it  rolled  up,  she  held  it  eagerly 
to  her  breast, — to  the  right  side.  We  could  see  her  eyes 
bright  with  a  surprising  tenderness  and  joy,  bending  over 


Rab  and  His  Friends  221 

this  bundle  of  clothes.  She  held  it  as  a  woman  holds 
her  sucking  child ;  opening  out  her  nightgown  impatiently, 
and  holding  it  close,  and  brooding  over  it,  and  murmur- 
ing foolish  little  words,  as  over  one  whom  his  mother 
comforteth,  and  who  sucks  and  is  satisfied.  It  was  pitiful  5 
and  strange  to  see  her  wasted  dying  look,  keen  and  yet 
vague, — her  immense  love. 

"Preserve  me!"  groaned  James,  giving  way.  And 
then  she  rocked  back  and  forward,  as  if  to  make  it  sleep, 
hushing  it,  and  wasting  on  it  her  infinite  fondness,  ic 
"  Wae's  me,  doctor;  I  declare  she's  thinkin'  it's  that 
bairn."  "  What  bairn?  "  "  The  only  bairn  we  ever  had ; 
our  wee  Mysie,  and  she's  in  the  Kingdom,  forty  years 
and  mair."  It  was  plainly  true:  the  pain  in  the  breast, 
telling  its  urgent  story  to  a  bewildered,  ruined  brain,  15 
was  misread  and  mistaken ;  it  suggested  to  her  the  uneasi- 
ness of  a  breast  full  of  milk,  and  then  the  child ;  and  so 
again  once  more  they  were  together,  and  she  had  her  ain 
wee  Mysie  in  her  bosom. 

This  was  the  close.     She  sank  rapidly:  the  delirium  20 
left  her;  but,  as  she  whispered,  she  was  "clean  silly"; 
it  was  the  lightening  before  the  final   darkness.     After 
having  for  some  time  lain  still,  her  eyes  shut,  she  said, 
"James!"      He  came  close  to  her,   and   lifting  up  her 
calm,   clear,   beautiful   eyes,   she   gave   him  a   long  look,  25 
turned   to  me   kindly   but   shortly,    looked    for   Rab   but 
could     not     see     him,     then     turned     to     her     husband 
again,    as    if    she    would    never    leave    off    looking,    shut 
her    eyes,    and    composed    herself.      She    lay    for    some 
time  breathing  quick,   and   passed   away  so   gently,   that  30 
when    we    thought    she   was    gone,    James,    in    his   old- 
fashioned   way,  held   the   mirror  to   her   face.      After   a 
long  pause,  one  small  spot  of  dimness  was  breathed  out; 
it  vanished  away,  and  never  returned,  leaving  the  blank 


222  The  Short  Story 

clear  darkness  of  the  mirror  without  a  stain.  "  What 
is  our  life?  it  is  even  a  vapor,  which  appeareth  for  a 
little  time,  and  then  vanisheth  away." 

Rab  all  this  time  had  been   full  awake  and  motion- 

5  less;  he  came  forward  beside  us;  Ailie's  hand,  which 
James  had  held,  was  hanging  down;  it  was  soaked  with 
his  tears;  Rab  licked  it  all  over  carefully,  looked  at  her, 
and  returned  to  his  place  under  the  table. 

James  and   I  sat,   I   don't  know  how  long,  but   for 

10  some  time, — saying  nothing :  he  started  up  abruptly,  and 
with  some  noise  went  to  the  table,  and  putting  his  right 
fore  and  middle  fingers  each  into  a  shoe,  pulled  them  out, 
and  put  them  on,  breaking  one  of  the  leather  latchets, 
and  muttering  in  anger,  "  I  never  did  the  like  o'  that 

15  afore!" 

I  believe  he  never  did;  nor  after  either.  "  Rab!  "  he 
said  roughly,  and  pointing  with  his  thumb  to  the  bottom 
of  the  bed.  Rab  leapt  up,  and  settled  himself;  his  head 
and  eye  to  the  dead  face.  "  Maister  John,  ye'll  wait 

20  for  me,"  said  the  carrier;  and  disappeared  in  the  dark- 
ness, thundering  downstairs  in  his  heavy  shoes.  I  ran 
to  a  front  window;  there  he  was,  already  round  the 
house,  and  out  at  the  gate,  fleeing  like  a  shadow. 

I  was  afraid  about  him,  and  yet  not  afraid ;  so  I  sat 

25  down  beside  Rab,  and  being  wearied,  fell  asleep.  I  awoke 
from  a  sudden  noise  outside.  It  was  November,  and 
there  had  been  a  heavy  fall  of  snow.  Rab  was  in  statu 
quo;  he  heard  the  noise  too,  and  plainly  knew  it,  but 
never  moved.  I  looked  out;  and  there,  at  the  gate,  in 

30  the  dim  morning — for  the  sun  was  not  up — was  Jess  and 
the  cart, — a  cloud  of  steam  rising  from  the  old  mare. 
I  did  not  see  James;  he  was  already  at  the  door,  and 
came  up  the  stairs,  and  met  me.  It  was  less  than  three 
hours  since  he  left,  and  he  must  have  posted  out — who 


Rab  and  His  Friends  223 

knows  how? — to  Howgate,  full  nine  miles  off,  yoked 
Jess,  and  driven  her  astonished  into  town.  He  had  an 
armful  of  blankets,  and  was  streaming  with  perspiration. 
He  nodded  to  me,  spread  out  on  the  floor  two  pairs  of 
clean  old  blankets  having  at  their  corners,  "  A.  G.,  5 
1794,"  in  large  letters  in  red  worsted.  These  were  the 
initials  of  Alison  Graeme,  and  James  may  have  looked 
in  at  her  from  without, — himself  unseen  but  not  un- 
thought  of, — when  he  was  "  wat,  wat,  and  weary,"  and 
after  having  walked  many  a  mile  over  the  hills,  may  10 
have  seen  her  sitting,  while  "  a'  the  lave  were  sleepin'  "  ; 
and  by  the  firelight  working  her  name  on  the  blankets, 
for  her  ain  James's  bed. 

He  motioned  Rab  down,  and  taking  his  wife  in  his 
arms,  laid  her  in  the  blankets,  and  happed  her  carefully  15 
and  firmly  up,  leaving  the  face  uncovered ;  and  then  lifting 
her,  he  nodded  again  sharply  to  me,  and  with  a  resolved 
but  utterly  miserable  face  strode  along  the  passage,  and 
downstairs,  followed  by  Rab.  I  followed  with  a  light; 
but  he  didn't  need  it.  I  went  out,  holding  stupidly  the  20 
candle  in  my  hand  in  the  calm  frosty  air;  we  were  soon 
at  the  gate.  I  could  have  helped  him,  but  I  saw  he  was 
not  to  be  meddled  with,  and  he  was  strong,  and  did  not 
need  it.  He  laid  her  down  as  tenderly,  as  safely,  as  he 
had  lifted  her  out  ten  days  before, — as  tenderly  as  when  25 
he  had  her  first  in  his  arms  when  she  was  only  "  A.  G.," — 
sorted  her,  leaving  that  beautiful  sealed  face  open  to 
the  heavens;  and  then  taking  Jess  by  the  head,  he  moved 
away.  He  did  not  notice  me,  neither  did  Rab,  who  pre- 
sided behind  the  cart.  I  stood  till  they  passed  through  30 
the  long  shadow  of  the  College,  and  turned  up  Nicolson 
Street.  I  heard  the-  solitary  cart  sound  through  the 
streets,  and  die  away  and  come  again ;  and  I  returned, 
thinking  of  that  company  going  up  Libberton  Brae,  then 


224  The  Short  Story 

along  Roslin  Muir,  the  morning  light  touching  the  Pent- 
lands  and  making  them  like  on-looking  ghosts;  then  down 
the  hill  through  Auchindinny  woods,  past  "  haunted 
Woodhouselee  " ;  and  as  daybreak  came  sweeping  up  the 
5  bleak  Lammermuirs,  and  fell  on  his  owrn  door,  the  com- 
pany would  stop,  and  James  would  take  the  key,  and  lift 
Ailie  up  again,  laying  her  on  her  own  bed,  and,  having 
put  Jess  up,  would  return  with  Rab  and  shut  the  door. 
James  buried  his  wife,  with  his  neighbors  mourning, 

10  Rab  inspecting  the  solemnity  from  a  distance.  It  was 
snow,  and  that  black  ragged  hole  would  look  strange  in 
the  midst  of  the  swelling  spotless  cushion  of  white. 
James  looked  after  everything;  then  rather  suddenly  fell 
ill,  and  took  to  bed ;  was  insensible  when  the  doctor  came, 

15  and  soon  died.  A  sort  of  low  fever  was  prevailing  in  the 
village,  and  his  want  of  sleep,  his  exhaustion,  and  his 
misery  made  him  apt  to  take  it.  The  grave  was  not 
difficult  to  reopen.  A  fresh  fall  of  snow  had  again  made 
all  things  white  and  smooth;  Rab  once  more  looked  on, 

20  and  slunk  home  to  the  stable. 

And  what  of  Rab?  I  asked  for  him  next  week  at  the 
new  carrier  who  got  the  good-will  of  James's  business, 
and  was  now  master  of  Jess  and  her  cart.  "  How's 
Rab?  "  He  put  me  off,  and  said  rather  rudely,  "What's 

25  your  business  wi'  the  dowg?"  I  was  not  to  be  so  put 
off.  "Where's  Rab?"  He,  getting  confused  and  red, 
and  intermeddling  with  his  hair,  said,  "  'Deed,  sir,  Rab's 
deid."  "  Dead !  what  did  he  die  of?  "  "  Weel,  sir,"  said 
he,  getting  redder,  "  he  didna  exactly  dee ;  he  was  killed. 

30  I  had  to  brain  him  wi'  a  rackpin ;  there  was  nae  doin' 
wi'  him.  He  lay  in  the  treviss  wi'-the  mear,  and  wadna 
come  oot.  I  tempit  him  wi'  kail  and  meat,  but  he  wad 
tak  naething,  and  keepit  me  frae  feedin'  the  beast,  and 


Rab  and  His  Friends  225 

he  was  aye  gur  gurrin',  and  grup  gruppin'  me  by  the 
legc.  I  was  laith  to  make  awa  wi'  the  auld  dowg,  his 
like  vvasna  atween  this  and  Thornhill, — but,  'deed,  sir, 
I  could  do  naething  else."  I  believed  him.  Fit  end  for 
Rab,  quick  and  complete.  His  teeth  and  his  friends  5 
gone,  why  should  he  keep  the  peace,  and  be  civil? 


THE   SIRE   DE   MALETROIT'S   DOOR* 

BY  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

DENIS  DE  BEAULIEU  was  not  yet  two-and-twenty, 
but  he  counted  himself  a  grown  man,  and  a  very  accom- 
plished cavalier  into  the  bargain.  Lads  were  early  formed 
in  that  rough,  warfaring  epoch;  and  when  one  has  been 
5  in  a  pitched  battle  and  a  dozen  raids,  has  killed  one's  man 
in  an  honorable  fashion,  and  knows  a  thing  or  two  of 
strategy  and  mankind,  a  certain  swagger  in  the  gait  is 
surely  to  be  pardoned.  He  had  put  up  his  horse  with 
due  care,  and  supped  with  due  deliberation;  and  then, 

10  in  a  very  agreeable  frame  of  mind,  went  out  to  pay  a 
visit  in  the  gray  of  the  evening.  It  was  not  a  very  wise 
proceeding  on  the  young  man's  part.  He  would  have 
done  better  to  remain  beside  the  fire  or  go  decently  to 
bed.  For  the  town  was  full  of  the  troops  of  Burgundy  and 

15  England  under  a  mixed  command ;  and  though  Denis  was 
there  on  safe-conduct,  his  safe-conduct  was  like  to  serve 
him  little  on  a  chance  encounter. 

It    was    September,    1429;    the    weather    had    fallen 
sharp;  a  flighty  piping  wind,  leaden  with  showers,  beat 

20  about  the  township ;  and  the  dead  leaves  ran  riot  along 
the  streets.  Here  and  there  a  window  was  already 
lighted  up;  and  the  noise  of  men-at-arms  making  merry 
over  supper  within,  came  forth  in  fits  and  was  swal- 

*  ROBERT  Louis  STEVENSON  (1850-1894),  Scottish  story-writer 
and  essayist,  published  The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door  in  1878. 
Treasure  Island  is  his  masterpiece  in  the  long  story.  This 
story  is  used  by  the  kind  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

226 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          227 

lowed  up  and  carried  away  by  the  wind.  The  night  fell 
swiftly;  the  flag  of  England,  fluttering  on  the  spire-top, 
grew  ever  fainter  and  fainter  against  the  flying  clouds — 
a  black  speck  like  a  swallow  in  the  tumultuous,  leaden 
chaos  of  the  sky.  As  the  night  fell  the  wind  rose,  and  5 
began  to  hoot  under  archways  and  roar  amid  the  tree- 
tops  in  the  valley  below  the  town. 

Denis  de  Beaulieu  walked  fast  and  was  soon  knock- 
ing at  his  friend's  door;  but  though  he  promised  him- 
self to  stay  only  a  little  while  and  make  an  early  return,  10 
his  welcome  was  so  pleasant,  and  he  found  so  much  to 
delay  him,  that  it  was  already  long  past  midnight  before 
he  said  good-by  upon  the  threshold.  The  wind  had  fallen 
again  .in  the  meanwhile ;  the  night  was  as  black  as  the 
grave;  not  a  star,  nor  a  glimmer  of  moonshine,  slipped  15 
through  the  canopy  of  cloud.  Denis  was  ill-acquainted 
with  the  intricate  lanes  of  Chateau  Landon;  even  by 
daylight  he  had  found  some  trouble  in  picking  his  way; 
and  in  this  absolute  darkness  he  soop  lost  it  altogether. 
He  was  certain  of  one  thing  only — to  keep  mounting  the  20 
hill;  for  his  friend's  house  lay  at  the  lower  end,  or  tail, 
of  Chateau  Landon,  while  the  inn  was  up  at  the  head, 
under  the  great  church  spire.  With  this  clue  to  go 
upon  he  stumbled  and  groped  forward,  now  breathing 
more  freely  in  open  places  where  there  was  a  good  slice  25 
of  sky  overhead,  now  feeling  along  the  wall  in  stifling 
closes.  It  is  an  eerie  and  mysterious  position  to  be  thus 
submerged  in  opaque  blackness  in  an  almost  unknown 
town.  The  silence  is  terrifying  in  its  possibilities.  The 
touch  of  cold  window  bars  to  the  exploring  hand  startles  30 
the  man  like  the  touch  of  a  toad ;  the  inequalities  of  the 
pavement  shake  his  heart  into  his  mouth ;  a  piece  of 
denser  darkness  threatens  an  ambuscade  or  a  chasm  in 
the  pathway ;  and  where  the  air  is  brighter,  the  houses 


228  The  Short  Story 

put  on  strange  and  bewildering  appearances,  as  if  to  lead 
him  farther  from  his  way.  For  Denis,  who  had  to  regain 
his  inn  without  attracting  notice,  there  was  real  danger 
as  well  as  mere  discomfort  in  the  walk;  and  he  went 
5  warily  and  boldly  at  once,  and  at  every  corner  paused  to 
make  an  observation. 

He  had  been  for  some  time  threading  a  lane  so  nar- 
row that  he  could  touch  a  wall  with  either  hand  when  it 
began  to  open  out  and  go  sharply  downward.  Plainly 

10  this  lay  no  longer  in  the  direction  of  his  inn ;  but  the 
hope  of  a  little  more  light  tempted  him  forward  to 
reconnoiter.  The  lane  ended  in  a  terrace  with  a  bartizan 
wall,  which  gave  an  outlook  between  high  houses,  as  out 
of  an  embrasure,  into  the  valley  lying  dark  and  formless 

15  several  hundred  feet  below.  Denis  looked  down,  and 
could  discern  a  few  tree-tops  waving  and  a  single  speck 
of  brightness  where  the  river  ran  across  a  weir.  The 
weather  was  clearing  up,  and  the  sky  had  lightened,  so 
as  to  show  the  outline  of  the  heavier  clouds  and  the  dark 

20  margin  of  the  hills.  By  the  uncertain  glimmer,  the  house 
on  his  left  hand  should  be  a  place  of  some  pretensions; 
it  was  surmounted  by  several  pinnacles  and  turret-tops; 
the  round  stern  of  a  chapel,  with  a  fringe  of  flying  but- 
tresses, projected  boldly  from  the  main  block;  and  the 

25  door  was  sheltered  under  a  deep  porch  carved  with  figures 
and  overhung  by  two  long  gargoyles.  The  windows  of 
the  chapel  gleamed  through  their  intricate  tracery  with  a 
light  as  of  many  tapers,  and  threw  out  the  buttresses  and 
the  peaked  roof  in  a  more  intense  blackness  against  the 

30  sky.  It  was  plainly  the  hotel  of  some  great  family  of  the 
neighborhood ;  and  as  it  reminded  Denis  of  a  town  house 
of  his  own  at  Bourges,  he  stood  for  some  time  gazing  up 
at  it  and  mentally  gauging  the  skill  of  the  architects 
and  the  consideration  of  the  two  families. 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          229 

There  seemed  to  be  no  issue  to  the  terrace  but  the 
lane  by  which  he  had  reached  it;  he  could  only  retrace 
his  steps,  but  he  had  gained  some  notion  of  his  where- 
abouts, and  hoped  by  this  means  to  hit  the  main  thorough- 
fare and  speedily  regain  the  inn.  He  was  reckoning  with-  5 
out  that  chapter  of  accidents  which  was  to  make  this 
night  memorable  above  all  others  in  his  career;  for  he 
had  not  gone  back  above  a  hundred  yards  before  he 
saw  a  light  coming  to  meet  him,  and  heard  loud  voices 
speaking  together  in  the  echoing  narrows  of  the  lane.  It  10 
was  a  party  of  men-at-arms  going  the  night  round  with 
torches.  Denis  assured  himself  that  they  had  all  been 
making  free  with  the  wine-bowl,  and  were  in  no  mood 
to  be  particular  about  safe-conducts  or  the  niceties  of 
chivalrous  war.  It  was  as  like  as  not  that  they  would  15 
kill  him  like  a  dog  and  leave  him  where  he  fell.  The 
situation  was  inspiriting  but  nervous.  Their  own  torches 
would  conceal  him  from  sight,  he  reflected ;  and  he  hoped 
that  they  would  drown  the  noise  of  his  footsteps  with 
their  own  empty  voices.  If  he  were  but  fleet  and  silent,  he  20 
might  evade  their  notice  altogether. 

Unfortunately,  as  he  turned  to  beat  a  retreat,  his  foot 
rolled  upon  a  pebble;  he  fell  against  the  wall  with  an 
ejaculation,  and  his  sword  rang  loudly  on  the  stones. 
Two  or  three  voices  demanded  who  went  there — some  25 
in  French,  some  in  English ;  but  Denis  made  no  reply, 
and  ran  the  faster  down  the  lane.  Once  upon  the  ter- 
race, he  paused  to  look  back.  They  still  kept  calling 
after  him,  and  just  then  began  to  double  the  pace  in 
pursuit,  with  a  considerable  clank  of  armor,  and  great  30 
tossing  of  the  torchlight  to  and  fro  in  the  narrow  jaws 
of  the  passage. 

Denis  cast  a  look  around  and  darted  into  the  porch. 
There  he  might  escape  observation,  or — if  that  were  too 


230  The  Short  Story 

much  to  expect — was  in  a  capital  posture  whether  for 
parley  or  defense.  So  thinking,  he  drew  his  sword  and 
tried  to  set  his  back  against  the  door.  To  his  surprise,  it 
yielded  behind  his  weight;  and  though  he  turned  in  a 
5  moment,  continued  to  swing  back  on  oiled  and  noiseless 
hinges,  until  it  stood  wide  open  on  a  black  interior. 
When  things  fall  out  opportunely  for  the  person  con- 
cerned, he  is  not  apt  to  be  critical  about  the  how  or  why, 
his  own  immediate  personal  convenience  seeming  a  suffi- 

10  cient  reason  for  the  strangest  oddities  and  revolutions  in 
our  sublunary  things;  and  so  Denis,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  stepped  within  and  partly  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him  to  conceal  his  place  of  refuge.  Nothing  was 
further  from  his  thoughts  than  to  close  it  altogether; 

15  but  for  some  inexplicable  reason — perhaps  by  a  spring  or 
a  weight — the  ponderous  mass  of  oak  whipped  itself  out 
of  his  fingers  and  clanked  to,  with  a  formidable  rumble 
and  a  noise  like  the  falling  of  an  automatic  bar. 

The   round,   at   that   very   moment,    debouched   upon 

20  the  terrace  and  proceeded  to  summon  him  with  shouts  and 
curses.  He  heard  them  ferreting  in  the  dark  corners ;  the 
stock  of  a  lance  even  rattled  along  the  outer  surface 
of  the  door  behind  which  he  stood;  but  these  gentle- 
men were  in  too  high  a  humor  to  be  long  delayed,  and 

25  soon  made  off  down  a  corkscrew  pathway  which  had 
escaped  Denis's  observation,  and  passed  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  along  the  battlements  of  the  town. 

Denis  breathed  again.     He  gave  them  a  few  minutes' 
grace  for  fear  of  accidents,  and  then  groped  about  for 

30  some  means  of  opening  the  door  and  slipping  forth  again. 
The  inner  surface  was  quite  smooth,  not  a  handle,  not  a 
molding,  not  a  projection  of  any  sort.  He  got  his  finger- 
nails round  the  edges  and  pulled,  but  the  mass  was  im- 
movable. He  shook  it,  it  was  as  firm  as  a  rock.  Denis 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          231 

de  Beaulieu  frowned  and  gave  vent  to  a  little  noiseless 
whistle.  What  ailed  the  door?  he  wondered.  Why  was 
it  open?  How  came  it  to  shut  so  easily  and  so  effectu- 
ally after  him  ?  There  was  something  obscure  and  under- 
hand about  all  this,  that  was  little  to  the  young  man's  5 
fancy.  It  looked  like  a  snare;  and  yet  who  could  sup- 
pose a  snare  in  such  a  quiet  by-street  and  in  a  house  of 
so  prosperous  and  even  noble  an  exterior?  And  yet — 
snare  or  no  snare,  intentionally  or  unintentionally — here 
he  was,  prettily  trapped;  and  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  10 
see  no  way  out  of  it  again.  The  darkness  began  to 
weigh  upon  him.  He  gave  ear;  all  was  silent  without,  but 
within  and  close. by  he  seemed  to  catch  a  faint  sighing, 
a  faint  sobbing  rustle,  a  little  stealthy  creak — as  though 
many  persons  were  at  his  side,  holding  themselves  quite  15 
still,  and  governing  even  their  respiration  with  the  ex- 
treme of  slyness.  The  idea  went  to  his  vitals  with  a 
shock,  and  he  faced  about  suddenly  as  if  to  defend  his 
life.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  became  aware  of  a  light 
about  the  level  of  his  eyes  and  at  some  distance  in  the  20 
interior  of  the  house — a  vertical  thread  of  light,  widen- 
ing towards  the  bottom,  such  as  might  escape  between 
two  wings  of  arras  over  a  doorway.  To  see  anything 
was  a  relief  to  Denis ;  it  was  like  a  piece  of  solid  ground 
to  a  man  laboring  in  a  morass;  his  mind  seized  upon  it  25 
with  avidity;  and  he  stood  staring  at  it  and  trying  to 
piece  together  some  logical  conception  of  his  surround- 
ings. Plainly  there  was  a  flight  of  steps  ascending  from 
his  own  level  to  that  of  this  illuminated  doorway ;  and 
indeed  he  thought  he  could  make  out  another  thread  of  30 
light,  as  fine  as  a  needle  and  as  faint  as  phosphorescence, 
which  might  very  well  be  reflected  along  the  polished 
wood  of  a  handrail.  Since  he  had  begun  to  suspect  that 
he  was  not  alone,  his  heart  had  continued  to  beat  with 


232  The  Short  Story 

smothering  violence,  and  an  intolerable  desire  for  action 
of  any  sort  had  possessed  itself  of  his  spirit.  He  was  in 
deadly  peril,  he  believed.  What  could  be  more  natural 
than  to  mount  the  staircase,  lift  the  curtain,  and  confront 
5  his  difficulty  at  once  ?  At  least  he  would  be  dealing  with 
something  tangible;  at  least  he  would  be  no  longer  in 
the  dark.  He  stepped  slowly  forward  with  outstretched 
hands,  until  his  foot  struck  the  bottom  step;  then  he 
rapidly  scaled  the  stairs,  stood  for  a  moment  to  compose 

10  his  expression,  lifted  the  arras,  and  went  in. 

He  found  himself  in  a  large  apartment  of  polished 
stone.  There  were  three  doors;  one  on  each  of  three 
sides;  all  similarly  curtained  with  tapestry.  The  fourth 
side  was  occupied  by  two  large  windows  and  a  great  stone 

15  chimney-piece,  carved  with  the  arms  of  the  Maletroits. 
Denis  recognized  the  bearings,  and  was  gratified  to  find 
himself  in  such  good  hands.  The  room  was  strongly 
illuminated;  but  it  contained  little  furniture  except  a 
heavy  table  and  a  chair  or  two,  the  hearth  was  innocent 

20  of  fire,  and  the  pavement  was  but  sparsely  strewn  with 
rushes  clearly  many  days  old. 

On  a  high  chair  beside  the  chimney,  and  directly  fac- 
ing Denis  as  he  entered,  sat  a  little  old  gentleman  in  a 
fur  tippet.  He  sat  with  his  legs  crossed  and  his  hands 

25  folded,  and  a  cup  of  spiced  wine  stood  by  his  elbow  on  a 
bracket  on  the  wall.  His  countenance  had  a  strongly 
masculine  cast;  not  properly  human,  but  such  as  we  see 
in  the  bull,  the  goat,  or  the  domestic  boar;  something 
equivocal  and  wheedling,  something  greedy,  brutal,  and 

30  dangerous.  The  upper  lip  was  inordinately  full,  as 
though  swollen  by  a  blow  or  a  toothache;  and  the  smile, 
the  peaked  eyebrows,  and  the  small,  strong  eyes  were 
quaintly  and  almost  comically  evil  in  expression.  Beau- 
tiful white  hair  hung  straight  all  round  his  head,  like  a 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          233 

saint's,  and  fell  in  a  single  curl  upon  the  tippet.  His 
beard  and  mustache  were  the  pink  of  venerable  sweetness. 
Age,  probably  in  consequence  of  inordinate  precautions, 
had  left  no  mark  upon  his  hands;  and  the  Maletroit  hand 
was  famous.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything  5 
at  once  so  fleshy  and  so  delicate  in  design ;  the  taper,  sen- 
sual fingers  were  like  those  of  one  of  Leonardo's  women ; 
the  fork  of  the  thumb  made  a  dimpled  protuberance  when 
closed;  the  nails  were  perfectly  shaped,  and  of  a  dead, 
surprising  whiteness.  It  rendered  his  aspect  tenfold  more  10 
redoubtable,  that  a  man  with  hands  like  these  should  keep 
them  devoutly  folded  like  a  virgin  martyr — that  a  man 
with  so  intent  and  startling  an  expression  of  face  should 
sit  patiently  on  his  seat  and  contemplate  people  with  an 
unwinking  stare,  like  a  god,  or  a  god's  statue.  His  15 
quiescence  seemed  ironical  and  treacherous,  it  fitted  so 
poorly  with  his  looks. 

Such  was  Alain,  Sire  de  Maletroit. 

Denis  and  he  looked  silently  at  each  other  for  a  sec- 
ond or  two.  20 

"  Pray    step    in,"    said    the    Sire    de    Maletroit.      "  I 
have  been  expecting  you  all  the  evening." 

He  had  not  risen  but  he  accompanied  his  words  with  a 
smile  and  a  slight  but  courteous  inclination  of  the  head. 
Partly  from  the  smile,  partly  from  the  strange  musical  25 
murmur  with  which  the  Sire  prefaced  his  observation, 
Denis  felt  a  strong  shudder  of  disgust  go  through  his 
marrow.  And  what  with  disgust  and  honest  confusion  of 
mind,  he  could  scarcely  get  words  together  in  reply. 

"  I  fear,"  he  said  ;  "  that  this  is  a  double  accident.    I  am  30 
not  the  person  you  suppose  me.     It  seems  you  were  look- 
ing for  a  visit;  but   for  my  part,   nothing  was  further 
from  my  thoughts — nothing  could  be  more  contrary  to 
my  wishes — than  this  intrusion." 


234  The  Short  Story 

"  Well,  well,"  replied  the  old  gentleman  indulgently, 
"  here  you  are,  which  is  the  main  point.  Seat  yourself, 
my  friend,  and  put  yourself  entirely  at  your  ease.  We 
shall  arrange  our  little  affairs  presently." 
5  Denis  perceived  that  the  matter  was  still  complicated 
with  some  misconception,  and  he  hastened  to  continue  his 
explanations. 

"  Your  door  .    .    . "  he  began. 

"  About  my  door?  "  asked  the  other,  raising  his  peaked 
10  eyebrows.     "  A    little    piece    of    ingenuity."     And    he 
shrugged  his  shoulders.     "  A  hospitable  fancy !     By  your 
own  account,  you  were  not  desirous  of  making  my  ac- 
quaintance.   We  old  people  look  for  such  reluctance  now 
and  then ;  when  it  touches  our  honor,  we  cast  about  until 
15  we  find  some  way  of  overcoming  it.    You  arrive  uninvited, 
but  believe  me,  very  welcome." 

"  You  persist  in  error,  sir,"  said  Denis.      '  There  can 

be  no  question  between  you  and  me.     I   am  a  stranger 

in    this    countryside.     My    name    is    Denis,    damoiseau 

20  de    Beaulieu.     If    you    see    me    in    your    house,    it    is 

only " 

"  My  young  friend,"  interrupted  the  other,  "  you  will 

permit  me  to  have  my  own  ideas  on  that  subject.     They 

probably  differ  from  yours  at  the  present  moment,"  he 

25  added  with  a  leer,  "  but  time  will  show  which  of  us  is  in 

the  right." 

Denis  was  convinced  he  had  to  do  with  a  lunatic.  He 
seated  himself  with  a  shrug,  content  to  wait  the  upshot; 
and  a  pause  ensued,  during  which  he  thought  he  could 
30  distinguish  a  hurried  gabbling  as  of  prayer  from  behind 
the  arras  immediately  opposite  him.  Sometimes  there 
seemed  to  be  but  one  person  engaged,  sometimes  two; 
and  the  vehemence  of  the  voice,  low  as  it  was,  seemed  to 
indicate  either  great  haste  or  an  agony  of  spirit.  It  oc- 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          235 

curred   to   him   that   this  piece  of  tapestry   covered   the 
entrance  to  the  chapel  he  had  noticed  from  without. 

The  old  gentleman  meanwhile  surveyed  Denis  from 
head  to  foot  with  a  smile,  and  from  time  to  time  emitted 
little  noises  like  a  bird  or  a  mouse,  which  seemed  to  5 
indicate  a  high  degree  of  satisfaction.  This  state  of  mat- 
ters became  rapidly  insupportable;  and  Denis,  to  put  an 
end  to  it,  remarked  politely  that  the  wind  had  gone 
down. 

The  old  gentleman  fell  into  a  fit  of  silent  laughter,  10 
so  prolonged  and  violent  that  he  became  quite  red  in  the 
face.     Denis  got  upon  his  feet  at  once,  and  put  on  his 
hat  with  a  flourish. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  if  you  are  in  your  wits,  you  have 
affronted  me  grossly.     If  you  are  out  of  them,  I  flatter  15 
myself  I  can  find  better  employment  for  my  brains  than 
to  talk  with  lunatics.     My  conscience  is  clear;  you  have 
made  a  fool   of  me   from   the  first  moment;   you   have 
refused  to  hear  my  explanations;  and   now  there  is  no 
power  under  God  will  make  me  stay  here  any  longer;  20 
and   if  I   cannot  make  my  way  out   in   a  more   decent 
fashion,  I  will  hack  your  door  in  pieces  with  my  sword." 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit  raised  his  right  hand  and 
wagged  it  at  Denis  with  the  fore  and  little  fingers  ex- 
tended. 25 

"  My  dear  nephew,"  he  said,  "  sit  down." 

"  Nephew!  "  retorted  Denis,  "  you  lie  in  your  throat;" 
and  he  snapped  his  fingers  in  his  face. 

"Sit  down,  you  rogue!"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  in 
a  sudden,  harsh  voice,  like  the  barking  of  a  dog.  "  Do  30 
you  fancy,"  he  went  on,  "  that  when  I  had  made  my  little 
contrivance  for  the  door  I  had  stopped  short  with  that? 
If  you  prefer  to  be  bound  hand  and  foot  till  your  bones 
ache,  rise  and  try  to  go  away.  If  you  choose  to  remain 


236  The  Short  Story 

a  free  young  buck,  agreeably  conversing  with  an  old 
gentleman — why,  sit  where  you  are  in  peace,  and  God  be 
with  you." 

"  Do  you  mean  I  am  a  prisoner?"  demanded  Denis. 
5       "I   state   the   facts,"    replied   the   other.      "  I    would 
rather  leave  the  conclusion  to  yourself." 

Denis  sat  down  again.  Externally  he  managed  to 
keep  pretty  calm;  b,ut  within,  he  was  now  boiling  with 
anger,  now  chilled  with  apprehension.  He  no  longer 
10  felt  convinced  that  he  was  dealing  with  a  madman.  And 
if  the  old  gentleman  was  sane,  what,  in  God's  name,  had 
he  to  look  for?  What  absurd  or  tragical  adventure  had 
befallen  him  ?  What  countenance  was  he  to  assume  ? 

While  he  was  thus  unpleasantly  reflecting,  the  arras 

15  that  overhung  the  chapel   door  was   raised,   and   a  tall 

priest  in  his  robes  came  forth  and,  giving  a  long,  keen 

stare  at  Denis,  said  something  in  an  undertone  to  Sire 

de  Maletroit. 

"  She  is  in  a  better  frame  of  spirit?  "  asked  the  latter. 
20       "  She  is  more  resigned,  messire,"  replied  the  priest. 

"  Now  the  Lord  help  her,  she  is  hard  to  please!  " 
sneered  the  old  gentleman.  "  A  likely  stripling — not  ill- 
born — and  of  her  own  choosing,  too?  Why,  what  more 
would  the  jade  have?  " 

25       "  The  situation  is  not  usual  for  a  young  damsel,"  said 
the  other,  "  and  somewhat  trying  to  her  blushes." 

"  She  should  have  thought  of  that  before  she  began  the 
dance!  It  was  none  of  my  choosing,  God  knows  that: 
but  since  she  is  in  it,  by  our  lady,  she  shall  carry  it  to  the 
30  end."  And  then  addressing  Denis,  "  Monsieur  de  Beau- 
lieu,"  he  asked,  "  may  I  present  you  to  my  niece?  She 
has  been  waiting  your  arrival,  I  may  say,  with  even 
greater  impatience  than  myself." 

Denis  had  resigned  himself  with  a  good  grace — all  he 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          237 

desired  was  to  know  the  worst  of  it  as  speedily  as  pos- 
sible; so  he  rose  at  once,  and  bowed  in  acquiescence. 
The  Sire  de  Maletroit  followed  his  example  and  limped, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  chaplain's  arm,  towards 
the  chapel-door.  The  priest  pulled  aside  the  arras,  and  5 
all  three  entered.  The  building  had  considerable  archi- 
tectural pretensions.  A  light  groining  sprang  from  six 
stout  columns,  and  hung  down  in  two  rich  pendants 
from  the  center  of  the  vault.  The  place  terminated 
behind  the  altar  in  a  round  end,  embossed  and  honey-  10 
combed  with  a  superfluity  of  ornament  in  relief,  and 
pierced  by  many  little  windows  shaped  like  stars,  trefoils, 
or  wheels.  These  windows  were  imperfectly  glazed,  so 
that  the  night  air  circulated  freely  in  the  chapel.  The 
tapers,  of  which  there  must  have  been  half  a  hundred  15 
burning  on  the  altar,  were  unmercifully  blown  about; 
and  the  light  went  through  many  different  phases  of 
brilliancy  and  semi-eclipse.  On  the  steps  in  front  of  the 
altar  knelt  a  young  girl  richly  attired  as  a  bride.  A 
chill  settled  over  Denis  as  he  observed  her  costume;  he  20 
fought  with  desperate  energy  against  the  conclusion  that 
was  being  thrust  upon  his  mind;  it  could  not — it  should 
not — be  as  he  feared. 

"  Blanche,"  said  the  Sire,  in  his  most  flute-like  tones, 
"  I  have  brought  a  friend  to  see  you,  my  little  girl ;  turn  25 
round  and  give  him  your  pretty  hand.     It  is  good  to  be 
devout;  but  it  is  necessary  to  be  polite,  my  niece." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  turned  toward  the  new- 
comers. She  moved  all  of  a  piece ;  and  shame  and  exhaus- 
tion were  expressed  in  every  line  of  her  fresh  young  body ;  30 
and  she  held  her  head  down  and  kept  her  eyes  upon  the 
pavement,  as  she  came  slowly  forward.  In  the  course 
of  her  advance,  her  eyes  fell  upon  Denis  de  Beaulieu's 
feet — feet  of  which  he  was  justly  vain,  be  it  remarked, 


238  The  Short  Story 

and  wore  in  the  most  elegant  accour'erment  even  while 
traveling.  She  paused — started,  as  if  his  yellow  boots  had 
conveyed  some  shocking  meaning — and  glanced  suddenly 
up  into  the  wearer's  countenance.  Their  eyes  met; 
5  shame  gave  place  to  horror  and  terror  in  her  looks;  the 
blood  left  her  lips ;  with  a  piercing  scream  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands  and  sank  upon  the  chapel  floor. 

"  That  is  not  the  man!  "  she  cried.  "  My  uncle,  that 
is  not  the  man !  " 

10  The  Sire  de  Maletroit  chirped  agreeably.  "  Of  course 
not,"  he  said,  "  I  expected  as  much.  It  was  so  unfortu- 
nate you  could  not  remember  his  name." 

"  Indeed,"  she  cried,  "  indeed,  I  have  never  seen  this 
person  till  this  moment — I  have  never  so  much  as  set 
15  eyes  upon  him — I  never  wish  to  see  him  again.  Sir," 
she  said,  turning  to  Denis,  "  if  you  are  a  gentleman,  you 
will  bear  me  out.  Have  I  ever  seen  you — have  you  ever 
seen  me — before  this  accursed  hour  ?  " 

"  To  speak  for  myself,  I  have  never  had  that  pleasure," 
20  answered  the  young  man.    "  This  is  the  first  time,  messire, 
that  I  have  met  with  your  engaging  niece." 

The  old  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  I  am  distressed  to  hear  it,"  he  said.    "  But  it  is  never 
too  late  to  begin.     I  had  little  more  acquaintance  with 
25  my  own  late  lady  ere  I  married  her ;  which  proves,"  he 
added,  with  a  grimace,  "  that  these  impromptu  marriages 
may  often  produce  an  excellent  understanding  in  the  long 
run.    As  the  bridegroom  is  to  have  a  voice  in  the  matter, 
I  will  give  him  two  hours  to  make  up  for  lost  time  be- 
30  fore  we  proceed  with  the  ceremony."    And  he  turned  to- 
ward the  door,  followed  by  the  clergyman. 

The  girl  was  on  her  feet  in  a  moment.  "  My  uncle, 
you  cannot  be  in  earnest,"  she  said.  "  I  declare  before 
God  I  will  stab  myself  rather  than  be  forced  on  that 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          239 

young  man.  The  heart  rises  at  it;  God  forbids  such 
marriages;  you  dishonor  your  white  hair.  Oh,  my  uncle, 
pity  me!  There  is  not  a  woman  in  all  the  world  but 
would  prefer  death  to  such  a  nuptial.  Is  it  possible," 
she  added,  faltering — "  is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  be-  5 
lieve  me — that  you  still  think  this  " — and  she  pointed  at 
Denis  with  a  tremor  of  anger  and  contempt — "  that  you 
still  think  this  to  be  the  man?  " 

"  Frankly,"   said   the  old   gentleman,   pausing  on   the 
threshold,  "  I  do.     But  let  me  explain  to  you  once  for  10 
all,  Blanche  de  Maletroit,  my  way  of  thinking  about  this 
affair.    When  you  took  it  into  your  head  to  dishonor  my 
family  and  the  name  that  I  have  borne,  in  peace  and  war, 
for  more  than  three-score  years,  you  forfeited,  not  only 
the  right  to  question  my  designs,  but  that  of  looking  me  15 
in  the  face.     If  your  father  had  been  alive,  he  would  have 
spat  on  you  and  turned  you  out  of  doors.     His  was  the 
hand  of  iron.    You  may  bless  your  God  you  have  only  to 
deal  with  the  hand  of  velvet,  mademoiselle.     It  was  my 
duty  to  get  you  married  without  delay.     Out  of  pure  20 
good-will,  I  have  tried  to  find  your  own  gallant  for  you. 
And  I  believe  I  have  succeeded.    But  before  God  and  all 
the  holy  angels,  Blanche  de  Maletroit,  if  I  have  not,  I 
care  not  one  jack-straw.    So  let  me  recommend  you  to  be 
polite  to  our  young  friend ;  for  upon  my  word,  your  next  25 
groom  may  be  less  appetizing." 

And  with  that  he  went  out,  with  the  chaplain  at  his 
heels;  and  the  arras  fell  behind  the  pair. 

The  girl  turned  upon  Denis  with  flashing  eyes. 

"  And  what,  sir,"  she  demanded,  "  may  be  the  mean-  30 
ing  of  all  this?  " 

"  God  knows,"  returned  Denis,  gloomily.  "  I  am  a 
prisoner  in  this  house,  which  seems  full  of  mad  people. 
More  I  know  not ;  and  nothing  do  I  understand." 


240  The  Short  Story 

"  And  pray  how  came  you  here?  "  she  asked. 
He  told  her  as  briefly  as  he  could.    "  For  the  rest,"  he 
added,  "  perhaps  you  will  follow  my  example,  and  tell 
me  the  answer  to  all  these  riddles,  and  what,  in  God's 
5  name,  is  like  to  be  the  end  of  it." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  little,  and  he  could  see  her  lips 
tremble  and  her  tearless  eyes  burn  with  a  feverish  luster. 
Then  she  pressed  her  forehead  in  both  hands. 

"Alas,  how  my  head  aches!"  she  said  wearily — "to 

10  say  nothing  of  my  poor  heart !  But  it  is  due  to  you  to 
know  my  story,  unmaidenly  as  it  must  seem.  I  am  called 
Blanche  de  Maletroit;  I  have  been  without  father  or 
mother  for— oh!  for  as  long  as  I  can  recollect,  and  in- 
deed I  have  been  most  unhappy  all  my  life.  Three  months 

15  ago  a  young  captain  began  to  stand  near  me  every  day 
in  church.  I  could  see  that  I  pleased  him;  I  am  much 
to  blame,  but  I  was  so  glad  that  anyone  should  love  me; 
and  when  he  passed  me  a  letter,  I  took  it  home  with  me 
and  read  it  with  great  pleasure.  Since  that  time  he  has 

20  written  many.  He  was  so  anxious  to  speak  with  me,  poor 
fellow!  and  kept  asking  me  to  leave  the  door  open  some 
evening  that  we  might  have  two  words  upon  the  stair. 
For  he  knew  how  much  my  uncle  trusted  me."  She  gave 
something  like  a  sob  at  that,  and  it  was  a  moment  before 

25  she  could  go  on.  "  My  uncle  is  a  hard  man,  but  he  is 
very  shrewd,"  she  said  at  last.  "  He  has  performed  many 
feats  in  war,  and  was  a  great  person  at  court,  and  much 
trusted  by  Queen  Isabeau  in  old  days.  How  he  came 
to  suspect  me  I  cannot  tell;  but  it  is  hard  to  keep  any- 

30  thing  from  his  knowledge ;  and  this  morning,  as  we  came 
from  mass,  he  took  my  hand  into  his,  forced  it  open,  and 
read  my  little  billet,  walking  by  my  side  all  the  while. 
When  he  finished,  he  gave  it  back  to  me  with  great 
politeness.  It  contained  another  request  to  have  the  door 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          241 

left  open;  and  this  has  been  the  ruin  of  us  all.  My 
uncle  kept  me  strictly  in  my  room  until  evening,  and  then 
ordered  me  to  dress  myself  as  you  see  me — a  hard  mockery 
for  a  young  girl,  do  you  not  think  so  ?  I  suppose,  when  he 
could  not  prevail  with  me  to  tell  him  the  young  cap-  5 
tain's  name,  he  must  have  laid  a  trap  for  him :  into  which, 
alas!  you  have  fallen  in  the  anger  of  God.  I  looked  for 
much  confusion;  for  how  could  I  tell  whether  he  was 
willing  to  take  me  for  his  wife  on  these  sharp  terms?  He 
might  have  been  trifling  with  me  from  the  first;  or  I  10 
might  have  made  myself  too  cheap  in  his  eyes.  But  truly 
I  had  not  looked  for  such  a  shameful  punishment  as  this! 
I  could  not  think  that  God  would  let  a  girl  be  so  dis- 
graced before  a  young  man.  And  now  I  tell  you  all ;  and 
I  can  scarcely  hope  that  you  will  not  despise  me."  15 

Denis  made  her  a  respectful  inclination. 

"  Madam,"  he  said,  "  you  have  honored  me  by  your 
confidence.  It  remains  for  me  to  prove  that  I  am  not 
unworthy  of  the  honor.  Is  Messire  de  Maletroit  at 
hand?"  20 

"  I  believe  he  is  writing  in  the  salle  without,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"May  I  lead  you  thither,  madam?"  asked  Denis, 
offering  his  hand  with  his  most  courtly  bearing. 

She  accepted  it;  and  the  pair  passed  out  of  the  chapel,  25 
Blanche  in  a  very  drooping  and  shamefast  condition,  but 
Denis  strutting  and    ruffling  in   the   consciousness   of   a 
mission,  and  the  boyish  certainty  of  accomplishing  it  with 
honor. 

The   Sire  de   Maletroit   rose  to  meet   them  with   an  30 
ironical  obeisance. 

"  Sir,"  said  Denis,  with  the  grandest  possible  air,  "  I 
believe  I  am  to  have  some  say  in  the  matter  of  this  mar- 
riage; and  let  me  tell  you  at  once,  I  will  be  no  party  to 


242  The  Short  Story 

forcing  the  inclination  of  this  young  lady.  Had  it  been 
freely  offered  to  me,  I  should  have  been  proud  to  accept 
her  hand,  for  I  perceive  she  is  as  good  as  she  is  beautiful; 
but  as  things  are,  I  have  now  the  honor,  messire,  of 
5  refusing." 

Blanche  looked  at  him  with  gratitude  in  her  eyes;  but 
the  old  gentleman  only  smiled  and  smiled,  until  his  smile 
grew  positively  sickening  to  Denis. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  that 

10  you  do  not  perfectly  understand  the  choice  I  have  offered 
you.  Follow  me,  I  beseech  you,  to  this  window."  And 
he  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  large  windows  which  stood 
open  on  the  night.  "  You  observe,"  he  went  on,  "  there 
is  an  iron  ring  in  the  upper  masonry,  and  reeved  through 

15  that,  a  very  efficacious  rope.  Now,  mark  my  words:  if 
you  should  find  your  disinclination  to  my  niece's  person 
insurmountable,  I  shall  have  you  hanged  out  of  this 
window  before  sunrise.  I  shall  only  proceed  to  such  an 
extremity  with  the  greatest  regret,  you  may  believe  me. 

20  For  it  is  not  at  all  your  death  that  I  desire,  but  my 
niece's  establishment  in  life.  At  the  same  time,  it  must 
come  to  that  if  you  prove  obstinate.  Your  family,  Mon- 
sieur de  Beaulieu,  is  very  well  in  its  way;  but  if  you 
sprang  from  Charlemagne,  you  should  not  refuse  the  hand 

25  of  a  Maletroit  with  impunity — not  if  she  had  been  as 
common  as  the  Paris  road — not  if  she  were  as  hideous 
as  the  gargoyle  over  my  door.  Neither  my  niece  nor 
you,  nor  my  own  private  feelings,  move  me  at  all  in  this 
matter.  The  honor  of  my  house  has  been  compromised ; 

30  I  believe  you  to  be  the  guilty  person,  at  least  you  are  now 
in  the  secret ;  and  you  can  hardly  wonder  if  I  request  you 
to  wipe  out  the  stain.  If  you  will  not,  your  blood  be  on 
your  own  head!  It  will  be  no  great  satisfaction  to  me 
to  have  your  interesting  relics  kicking  their  heels  in  the 

0 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          243 

breeze  below  my  windows,  but  half  a  loaf  is  better  than 
no  bread,  and  if  I  cannot  cure  the  dishonor,  I  shall  at  least 
stop  the  scandal." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  believe  there  are  other  ways  of  settling  such  im-  5 
broglios  among  gentlemen,"  said   Denis.   "  You  wear  a 
sword,  and  I  hear  you  have  used  it  with  distinction." 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit  made  a  signal  to  the  chaplain, 
who  crossed  the  room  with  long  silent  strides  and  raised 
the  arras  over  the  third  of  the  three  doors.     It  was  only  10 
a  moment  before  he  let  it  fall  again ;  but  Denis  had  time 
to  see  a  dusky  passage  full  of  armed  men. 

"  When  I  was  a  little  younger,  I  should  have  been 
delighted    to   honor   you,    Monsieur    de    Beaulieu,"    said 
Sire  Alain ;  "  but  I  am  now  too  old.     Faithful  retainers  15 
are  the  sinews  of  age,  and  I  must  employ  the  strength 
I  have.    This  is  one  of  the  hardest  things  to  swallow  as 
a  man  grows  up  in  years;  but  with  a  little  patience,  even 
this  becomes  habitual.     You  and  the  lady  seem  to  prefer 
the  salle  for  what  remains  of  your  two  hours;  and  as  I  20 
have  no  desire  to  cross  your  preference,  I  shall  resign  it  to 
your  use  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world.     No  haste !  " 
he  added,  holding  up  his  hand,  as  he  saw  a  dangerous 
look  come  into  Denis  de  Beaulieu's  face.     "If  your  mind 
revolt  against  hanging,  it  will  be  time  enough  two  hours  25 
hence  to  throw  yourself  out  of  the  window  or  upon  the 
pikes  of  my  retainers.    Two  hours  of  life  are  always  two 
hours.     A  great  many  things  may  turn   up  in  even  as 
little  a  while  as  that.    And,  besides,  if  I  understand  her 
appearance,  my  niece  has  something  to  say  to  you.     You  30 
will  not  disfigure  your  last  hours  by  a  want  of  polite- 
ness to  a  lady  ?  " 

Denis  looked  at  Blanche,  and  she  made  him  an  im- 
ploring gesture. 


244  The  Short  Story 

It  is  likely  that  the  old  gentleman  was  hugely  pleased 
at  this  symptom  of  an  understanding;  for  he  smiled  on 
both,  and  added  sweetly:  "  If  you  will  give  me  your  word 
of  honor,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  to  await  my  return  at 
5  the  end  of  the  two  hours  before  attempting  anything 
desperate,  I  shall  withdraw  my  retainers,  and  let  you 
speak  in  greater  privacy  with  mademoiselle." 

Denis  again  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  seemed   to  be- 
seech him  to  agree. 
10       "  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,"  he  said. 

Messire  de  Maletroit  bowed,  and  proceeded  to  limp 
about  the  apartment,  clearing,  his  throat  the  while  with 
that  odd  musical  chirp  which  had  already  grown  so  irri- 
tating in  the  ears  of  Denis  de  Beaulieu.  He  first  pos- 
15  sessed  himself  of  some  papers  which  lay  upon  the  table; 
then  he  went  to  the  mouth  of  the  passage  and  appeared 
to  give  an  order  to  the  men  behind  the  arras;  and  lastly 
he  hobbled  out  through  the  door  by  which  Denis  had 
come  in,  turning  upon  the  threshold  to  address  a  last 
20  smiling  bow  to  the  young  couple,  and  followed  by  the 
chaplain  with  a  hand-lamp. 

No   sooner  were  they   alone   than   Blanche   advanced 
towards  Denis  with  her  hands  extended.     Her  face  was 
flushed  and  excited,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  tears. 
25       "  You  shall  not  die !  "  she  cried,  "  you  shall  marry  me 
after  all." 

"  You  seem  to  think,  madam,"  replied  Denis,  "  that 
I  stand  much  in  fear  of  death." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  said,  "  I  see  you  are  no  poltroon. 
30  It  is  for  my  own  sake — I  could  not  bear  to  have  you 
slain   for  such  a  scruple." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  returned  Denis,  "  that  you  under- 
rate the  difficulty,  madam.  What  you  may  be  too  gener- 
ous to  refuse,  I  may  be  too  proud  to  accept.  In  a  mo- 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          245 

ment  of  noble  feeling  towards  me,  you  forgot  what  you 
perhaps  owe  to  others." 

He  had  the  decency  to  keep  his  eyes  on  the  floor  as  he 
said  this,  and  after  he  had  finished,  so  as  not  to  spy 
upon  her  confusion.  She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  then  5 
walked  suddenly  away,  and  falling  on  her  uncle's  chair, 
fairly  burst  out  sobbing.  Denis  was  in  the  acme  of 
embarrassment.  He  looked  round,  as  if  to  seek  for  in- 
spiration, and  seeing  a  stool,  plumped  down  upon  it  for 
something  to  do.  There  he  sat,  playing  with  the  guard  10 
of  his  rapier,  and  wishing  himself  dead  a  thousand  times 
over,  and  buried  in  the  nastiest  kitchen-heap  in  France. 
His  eyes  wandered  round  the  apartment,  but  found  noth- 
ing to  arrest  them.  There  were  such  wide  spaces  between 
furniture,  the  light  fell  so  badly  and  cheerlessly  over  all,  15 
the  dark  outside  air  looked  in  so  coldly  through  the  win- 
dows, that  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  church  so  vast, 
nor  a  tomb  so  melancholy.  The  regular  sobs  of  Blanche 
de  Maletroit  measured  out  the  time  like  the  ticking  of 
a  clock.  He  read  the  device  upon  the  shield  over  and  20 
over  again,  until  his  eyes  became  obscured ;  he  stared  into 
shadowy  corners  until  he  imagined  they  were  swarm- 
ing with  horrible  animals;  and  every  now  and  again  he 
awoke  with  a  start,  to  remember  that  his  last  two  hours 
were  running,  and  death  was  on  the  march.  25 

Oftener  and  oftener,  as  the  time  went  on,  did  his 
glance  settle  on  the  girl  herself.  Her  face  was  bowed 
forward  and  covered  with  her  hands,  and  she  was  shaken 
at  intervals  by  the  convulsive  hiccough  of  grief.  Even  thus 
she  was  not  an  unpleasant  object  to  dwell  upon,  so  plump  30 
and  yet  so  fine,  with  a  warm  brown  skin,  and  the  most 
beautiful  hair,  Denis  thought,  in  the  whole  world  of 
womankind.  Her  hands  were  like  her  uncle's;  but  they 
were  more  in  place  at  the  end  of  her  young  arms,  and 


246  The  Short  Story 

looked  infinitely  soft  and  caressing.  He  remembered  how 
her  blue  eyes  had  shone  upon  him,  full  of  anger,  pity, 
and  innocence.  And  the  more  he  dwelt  on  her  perfec- 
tions, the  uglier  death  looked,  and  the  more  deeply  was 

5  he  smitten  with  penitence  at  her  continued  tears.  Now 
he  felt  that  no  man  could  have  the  courage  to  leave  a 
world  which  contained  so  beautiful  a  creature;  and  now 
he  would  have  given  forty  minutes  of  his  last  hour  to  have 
unsaid  his  cruel  speech. 

10  Suddenly  a  hoarse  and  ragged  peal  of  cockcrow  rose 
to  their  ears  from  the  dark  valley  below  the  windows.. 
And  this  shattering  noise  in  the  silence  of  all  around  was 
like  a  light  in  a  dark  place,  and  shook  them  both  out 
of  their  reflections. 

15  "  Alas,  can  I  do  nothing  to  help  you?  "  she  said,  look- 
ing up. 

"  Madam,"  replied  Denis,  with  a  fine  irrelevancy,  "  if 
I  have  said  anything  to  wound  you,  believe  me,  it  was 
for  your  own  sake  and  not  for  mine." 

20      She  thanked  him  with  a  tearful  look. 

"  I  feel  your  position  cruelly,"  he  went  on.  "  The 
world  has  been  bitter  hard  on  you.  Your  uncle  is  a  dis- 
grace to  mankind.  Believe  me,  madam,  there  is  no  young 
gentleman  in  all  France  but  would  be  glad  of  my  oppor- 

25  tunity,  to  die  in  doing  you  a  momentary  service." 

"  I  know  already  that  you  can  be  very  brave  and  gen- 
erous," she  answered.  "  What  I  want  to  know  is  whether 
I  can  serve  you — now  or  afterwards,"  she  added,  with 
a  quaver. 

30  "  Most  certainly,"  he  answered  with  a  smile.  "  Let 
me  sit  beside  you  as  if  I  were  a  friend,  instead  of  a 
foolish  intruder;  try  to  forget  how  awkwardly  we  are 
placed  to  one  another ;  make  my  last  moments  go  pleas- 
antly; and  you  will  do  me  the  chief  service  possible." 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          247 

"  You  are  very  gallant,"  she  added,  with  a  yet  deeper 
sadness  ..."  very  gallant  .  .  .  and  it  somehow  pains 
me.  But  draw  nearer,  if  you  please;  and  if  you  find 
anything  to  say  to  me,  you  will  at  least  make  certain  of 
a  very  friendly  listener.  Ah!  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,"  5 
she  broke  forth — "ah!  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  how  can 
I  look  you  in  the  face?  "  And  she  fell  to  weeping  again 
with  a  renewed  effusion. 

"  Madam,"  said  Denis,  taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his, 
"  reflect  on  the  little  time  I  have  before  me,  and  the  great  10 
bitterness  into  which  I  am  cast  by  the  sight  of  your  dis- 
tress.    Spare  me,  in  my  last  moments,   the  spectacle  of 
what  I  cannot  cure  even  with  the  sacrifice  of  my  life." 

"  I  am  very  selfish,"  answered  Blanche.  "  I  will  be 
braver,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  for  your  sake.  But  think  15 
if  I  can  do  you  no  kindness  in  the  future — if  you  have 
no  friends  to  whom  I  could  carry  your  adieux.  Charge 
me  as  heavily  as  you  can;  every  burden  will  lighten, 
by  so  little,  the  invaluable  gratitude  I  owe  you.  Put  it 
in  my  power  to  do  something  more  for  you  than  weep."  20 

"  My  mother  is  married  again,  and  has  a  young 
family  to  care  for.  My  brother  Guichard  will  inherit 
my  fiefs;  and  if  I  am  not  in  error,  that  will  content 
him  amply  for  my  death.  Life  is  a  little  vapor  that 
passeth  away,  as  we  are  told  by  those  in  holy  orders.  25 
When  a  man  is  in  a  fair  way  and  sees  all  life  open  in 
front  of  him,  he  seems  to  himself  to  make  a  very  im- 
portant figure  in  the  world.  His  horse  whinnies  to  him; 
the  trumpets  blow  and  the  girls  look  out  of  window  as  he 
rides  into  town  before  his  company;  he  receives  many  30 
assurances  of  trust  and  regard — sometimes  by  express  in 
a  letter — sometimes  face  to  face,  with  persons  of  great 
consequence  falling  on  his  neck.  It  is  not  wonderful  if 
his  head  is  turned  for  a  time.  But  once  he  is  dead,  were 


248  The  Short  Story 

.  he  as  brave  as  Hercules  or  as  wise  as  Solomon,  he  is  soon 
forgotten.  It  is  not  ten  years  since  my  father  fell,  with 
many  other  knights  around  him,  in  a  very  fierce  encounter, 
and  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  of  them,  nor  so  much  as 
5  the  name  of  the  fight,  is  now  remembered.  No,  no, 
madam,  the  nearer  you  come  to  it,  you  see  that  death  is  a 
dark  and  dusty  corner,  where  a  man  gets  into  his  tomb  and 
has  the  door  shut  after  him  till  the  judgment  day.  I  have 
few  friends  just  now,  and  once  I  am  dead  I  shall  have 

10  none." 

"Ah,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu!"  she  exclaimed,  "you 
forget  Blanche  de  Maletroit." 

"  You  have  a  sweet  nature,  madam,  and  you  are 
pleased  to  estimate  a  little  service  far  beyond  its  worth." 

15  "  It  is  not  that,"  she  answered.  "  You  mistake  me  if 
you  think  I  am  easily  touched  by  my  own  concerns.  I  say 
so,  because  you  are  the  noblest  man  I  have  ever  met;  be- 
cause I  recognize  in  you  a  spirit  that  would  have  made 
even  a  common  person  famous  in  the  land." 

20  "  And  yet  here  I  die  in  a  mousetrap — with  no  more 
noise  about  it  than  my  own  squeaking,"  answered  he. 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  her  face,  and  she  was  silent  for 
a  little  while.  Then  a  light  came  into  her  eyes,  and  with 
a  smile  she  spoke  again. 

25  "  I  cannot  have  my  champion  think  meanly  of  himself. 
Anyone  who  gives  his  life  for  another  will  be  met  in 
Paradise  by  all  the  heralds  and  angels  of  the  Lord  God. 
And  you  have  no  such  cause  to  hang  your  head.  For  .  .  . 
Pray,  do  you  think  me  beautiful  ?  "  she  asked,  with  a 

30  deep   flush. 

"  Indeed,  madam,  I  do,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  answered  heartily.     "  Do 
you  think  there  are  many  men  in  France  who  have  been 
asked  in  marriage  by  a  beautiful  maiden — with  her  own 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door          249 

lips — and  who  have  refused  her  to  her  face?  I  know  you 
men  would  half  despise  such  a  triumph;  but  believe  me, 
we  women  know  more  of  what  is  precious  in  love.  There 
is  nothing  that  should  set  a  person  higher  in  his  own 
esteem ;  and  we  women  would  prize  nothing  more  dearly."  5 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said ;  "  but  you  cannot  make 
me  forget  that  I  wyas  asked  in  pity  and  not  for  love." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  replied,  holding  down 
her  head.     "  Hear  me  to  an  end,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu. 
I  know  how  you  must  despise  me;  I  feel  you  are  right  10 
to  do  so;  I  am  too  poor  a  creature  to  occupy  one  thought 
of  your  mind,  although,  alas!  you  must  die  for  me  this 
morning.     But  when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  indeed, 
and  indeed,  it  was  because  I  respected  and  admired  you, 
and  loved  you  with  my  whole  soul,  from  the  very  moment  15 
that  you  took  my  part  against  my  uncle.     If  you  had 
seen    yourself,    and    how   noble   you   looked,    you   would 
pity  rather  than  despise  me.     And  now,"  she  went  on, 
hurriedly  checking  him  with  her  hand,  "  although  I  have 
laid  aside  all   reserve  and  told  you  so  much,   remember  20 
that    I    know   your   sentiments   towards   me   already.      I 
would  not,  believe  me,  being  nobly  born,  weary  you  with 
importunities  into  consent.    I  too  have  a  pride  of  my  own : 
and   I   declare  before  the  holy   mother  of  God,   if  you 
should   now   go  back  from  your  word  already  given,   I  25 
would  no  more  marry  you  than  I  would  marry  my  uncle's 
groom." 

Denis  smiled   a  little  bitterly. 

"  It  is  a  small  love,"  he  said,  "  that  shies  at  a  little 
pride."  30 

She  made  no  answer,  although  she  probably  had  her 
own  thoughts. 

"  Come  hither  to  the  window,"  he  said  with  a  sigh. 
"  Here  is  the  dawn." 


250  The  Short  Story 

And  indeed  the  dawn  was  already  beginning.  The 
hollow  of  the  sky  was  full  of  essential  daylight,  color- 
less and  clean ;  and  the  valley  underneath  was  flooded 
with  a  gray  reflection.  A  few  thin  vapors  clung  in  the 
5  coves  of  the  forest  or  lay  along  the  winding  course  of 
the  river.  The  scene  disengaged  a  surprising  effect  of 
stillness,  which  was  hardly  interrupted  when  the  cocks 
began  once  more  to  crow  among  the  steadings.  Per- 
haps the  same  fellow  who  had  made  so  horrid  a  clangor 

10  in  the  darkness  not  half  an  hour  before,  now  sent  up  the 
merriest  cheer  to  greet  the  coming  day.  A  little  wind 
went  bustling  and  eddying  among  the  tree-tops  under- 
neath the  windows.  And  still  the  daylight  kept  flood- 
ing insensibly  out  of  the  east,  which  was  soon  to  grow 

15  incandescent  and  cast  up  that  red-hot  cannon-ball,  the 
rising  sun. 

Denis  looked  out  over  all  this  with  a  bit  of  a  shiver. 
He  had  taken  her  hand,  and  retained  it  in  his  almost 
unconsciously. 

20  "Has  the  day  begun  already?"  she  said;  and 
then,  illogically  enough:  "the  night  has  been  so  long! 
Alas!  what  shall  we  say  to  my  uncle  when  he 
returns?  " 

"  What   you   will,"   said    Denis,   and   he   pressed   her 

25  fingers   in   his. 

She  was  silent. 

"  Blanche,"  he  said,  with  a  swift,  uncertain,  passion- 
ate utterance,  "  you  have  seen  whether  I  fear  death.  You 
must  know  well  enough  that  I  would  as  gladly  leap  out 

30  of  that  window  into  the  empty  air  as  to  lay  a  ringer  on 
you  without  your  free  and  full  consent.  But  if  you 
care  for  me  at  all  do  not  let  me  lose  my  life  in  a  misap- 
prehension ;  for  I  love  you  better  than  the  whole  world  ; 
and  though  I  will  die  for  you  blithely,  it  would  be  like 


The  Sire  de  Maletro'it's  Door          251 

all  the  joys  of  Paradise  to  live  on  and  spend  my  life  in 
your  service." 

As  he  stopped  speaking,  a  bell  began  to  ring  loudly  in 
the  interior  of  the  house;  and  a  clatter  of  armor  in  the 
corridor  showed  that  the  retainers  were  returning  to  their  5 
post,  and  the  two  hours  were  at  an  end. 

"After    all    that    you    have    heard?"    she   whispered, 
leaning  towards  him  with  her  lips  and  eyes. 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,"  he  replied. 

"  The  captain's  name  was  Florin^ond  de  Champdivers,"  10 
she  said  in  his  ear. 

"  I  did  not  hear  it,"  he  answered,  taking  her  supple 
body  in  his  arms,  and  covered  her  wet  face  with  kisses. 

A  melodious  chirping  was  audible  behind,  followed  by 
a  beautiful  chuckle,  and  the  voice  of  Messire  de  Male-  15 
troit  wished  his  new  nephew  a  good-morning. 


ON  GREENHOW  HILL* 

BY  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

"  OHE,  Ahmed  din!  Shafiz  Ullah  ahoo!  Bahadur 
Khan,  where  are  you  ?  Come  out  of  the  tents,  as  I  have 
done,  and  fight  against  the  English.  Don't  kill  your  own 
kin!  Come  out  to  me!" 

5  The  deserter  from  a  native  corps  was  crawling  round 
the  outskirts  of  the  camp,  firing  at  intervals,  and  shouting 
invitations  to  his  old  comrades.  Misled  by  the  rain  and 
the  darkness,  he  came  to  the  English  wing  of  the  camp, 
and  with  his  yelping  and  rifle  practice  disturbed  the 
lomen.  They  had  been  making  roads  all  day,  and  were 
tired. 

Ortheris  was  sleeping  at  Learoyd's  feet.  "  Wot's  all 
that  ?  "  he  said,  thickly.  Learoyd  snored,  and  a  Snider 
bullet  ripped  its  way  through  the  tent  wall.  The  men 
15  swore.  "  It's  that  bloomin'  deserter  from  the  Aurang- 
abadis,"  said  Ortheris.  "  Git  up,  some  one,  an'  tell  'im 
'e's  come  to  the  wrong  shop." 

"  Go  to  sleep,  little  man,"  said  Mulvaney,  who  was 
steaming  nearest  the  door.     "  I  can't  rise  an'  expaytiate 
20  with  him.     'Tis  rainin'  intrenchin'  tools  outside." 

"  'Tain't  because  you  bloomin'  can't.     It's  'cause  you 

*  RUDYARD  KIPLING  (1865 — ),  an  Anglo-Indian,  first  made  his 
reputation  by  Indian  stories,  and  by  local-color  narratives,  of 
which  this  tale  is  an  example.  He  is  now  a  resident  of  Eng- 
land. This  story  was  first  published  in  Macmillan's  Magazine, 
September,  1890.  See  also  pp.  67-74,  7<>- 

252 


On  Greenhow  Hill  253 

bloomin'  won't,  ye  long,  limp,   lousy,  lazy  beggar  you. 
'Ark  to  'im  'owling!  " 

"  Wot's  the  good  of  argyfying?  Put  a  bullet  into 
the  swine!  'E's  keepin'  us  awake!"  said  another  voice. 

A   subaltern   shouted   angrily,   and   a   dripping  sentry  5 
whined  from  the  darkness — 

"  'Tain't  no  good,  sir.  I  can't  see  'im.  'E's  'idin' 
somewhere  down  'ill." 

Ortheris  tumbled  out  of  his  blanket.  "  Shall  I  try 
to  get  'im,  sir?"  said  he.  10 

"  No,"  was  the  answer;  "  lie  down.  I  won't  have  the 
whole  camp  shooting  all  round  the  clock.  Tell  him  to 
go  and  pot  his  friends." 

Ortheris  considered  for  a  moment.     Then,  putting  his 
head  under  the  tent  wall,  he  called,  as  a  'bus  conductor  15 
calls  in  a  block,  "  'Igher  up,  there!     'Igher  up!  " 

The  men  laughed,  and  the  laughter  was  carried  down 
wind  to  the  deserter,  who,  hearing  that  he  had  made  a 
mistake,  went  off  to  worry  his  own  regiment  half  a 
mile  away.  He  was  received  with  shots,  for  the  Aurang-  20 
abadis  were  very  angry  with  him  for  disgracing  their 
colors. 

"  An'  that's  all  right,"  said  Ortheris,  withdrawing  his 
head  as  he  heard  the  hiccough  of  the  Sniders  in  the  dis- 
tance.     "  S'elp   me   Gawd,   tho',   that   man's   not   fit   to  25 
live — messin'  with  my  beauty-sleep  this  way." 

"  Go  out  and  shoot  him  in  the  morning,  then,"  said 
the  subaltern,  incautiously.  "  Silence  in  the  tents  now! 
Get  your  rest,  men !  " 

Ortheris  lay  down  with  a  happy  little  sigh,  and   in  30 
two  minutes  there  was  no  sound  except  the  rain  on  the 
canvas  and   the  all-embracing  and  elemental  snoring  of 
Learoyd. 

The  camp  lay  on  a  bare  ridge  of  the  Himalayas,  and 


254  The  Short  Story 

for  a  week  had  been  waiting  for  a  flying  column  to  make 
connection.  The  nightly  rounds  of  the  deserter  and  his 
friends  had  become  a  nuisance. 

In  the  morning  the  men  dried  themselves  in  hot  sun- 
5  shine  and  cleaned  their  grimy  accouterments.  The 
native  regiment  was  to  take  its  turn  of  road-making  that 
day  while  the  Old  Regiment  loafed. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  lay  fer  a  shot  at  that  man,"  said  Ortheris, 

when  he  had  finished  washing  out  his  rifle.     "  'E  comes 

10  up  the  water-course  every  evenin'  about  five  o'clock.     If 

we  go  and  lie  out  on  the  north  'ill  a  bit  this  afternoon 

we'll  get  "im." 

"  You're  a  bloodthirsty  little  mosquito,"  said  Mul- 
vaney,  blowing  blue  clouds  into  the  air.  "  But  I  suppose 
15  I  will  have  to  come  wid  you.  Fwhere's  Jock  ?  " 

"  Gone  out  with  the  Mixed  Pickles,  'cause  'e  thinks 
'isself  a  bloomin'  marksman,"  said  Ortheris,  with  scorn. 

The  "  Mixed  Pickles  "  were  a  detachment  of  picked 
shots,  generally  employed  in  clearing  spurs  of  hills  when 
20  the  enemy  were  too  impertinent.  This  taught  the  young 
officers  how  to  handle  men,  and  did  not  do  the  enemy 
much  harm.  Mulvaney  and  Ortheris  strolled  out  of  camp, 
and  passed  the  Aurangabadis  going  to  their  road-making. 

"  You've  got  to  sweat  to-day,"  said  Ortheris,  -genially. 
25  "  We're  going  to  get  your  man.  You  didn't  knock  'im 
out  last  night  by  any  chance,  any  of  you  ?  " 

"  No.  The  pig  went  away  mocking  us.  I  had  one 
shot  at  him,"  said  a  private.  "  He's  my  cousin,  and  / 
ought  to  have  cleared  our  dishonor.  But  good  luck  to 
30  you." 

They  went  cautiously  to  the  north  hill,  Ortheris  lead- 
ing, because,  as  he  explained,  "  this  is  a  long-range  show, 
an'  I've  got  to  do  it."  His  was  an  almost  passionate  devo- 
tion to  his  rifle,  which,  by  barrack-room  report,  he  was 


On  Greenhow  Hill  255 

supposed  to  kiss  every  night  before  turning  in.  Charges 
and  scuffles  he  held  in  contempt,  and,  when  they  were  in- 
evitable, slipped  between  Mulvaney  and  Learoyd,  bid- 
ding them  to  fight  for  his  skin  as  well  as  their  own.  They 
never  failed  him.  He  trotted  along,  questing  like  a  hound  5 
on  a  broken  trail,  through  the  wood  of  the  north  hill. 
At  last  he  was  satisfied,  and  threw  himself  down  on  the 
soft  pine-needle  slope  that  commanded  a  clear  view  of  the 
water-course  and  a  brown  bare  hillside  beyond  it.  The 
trees  made  a  scented  darkness  in  which  an  army  corps  10 
could  have  hidden  from  the  sun-glare  without. 

"  'Ere's  the  tail  o'  the  wood,"  said  Ortheris.  "  'E's 
got  to  come  up  the  water-course,  'cause  it  gives  'im  cover. 
We'll  lay  'ere.  'Tain't  not  'arf  so  bloomin'  dusty 
neither."  15 

He  buried  his  nose  in  a  clump  of  scentless  white 
violets.  No  one  had  come  to  tell  the  flowers  that  the  sea- 
son of  their  strength  was  long  past,  and  they  had  bloomed 
merrily  in  the  twilight  of  the  pines. 

"  This  is  something  like,"  he  said,  luxuriously.     "  Wot  20 
a  'evinly  clear  drop  for  a  bullet  acrost.    How  much  d'  you 
make  it,  Mulvaney?" 

"  Seven  hunder.  Maybe  a  trifle  less,  bekase  the  air's 
so  thin." 

Wop!  wop!  wop!  went  a  volley  of  musketry  on  the  25 
rear  face  of  the  north  hill. 

"  Curse  them  Mixed  Pickles  firin'  at  nothin'!  They'll 
scare  'arf  the  country." 

"  Thry  a  sightin'  shot  in  the  middle  of  the  row,"  said 
Mulvaney,  the  man  of  many  wiles.      '  There's  a  red  rock  30 
yonder  he'll  be  sure  to  pass.    Quick!  " 

Ortheris  ran  his  sight  up  to  six  hundred  yards  and 
fired.  The  bullet  threw  up  a  feather  of  dust  by  a  clump 
of  gentians  at  the  base  of  the  rock. 


256  The  Short  Story 

"  Good  enough !  "  said  Ortheris,  snapping  the  scale 
down.  "  You  snick  your  sights  to  mine,  or  a  little  lower. 
You're  always  firm'  high.  But  remember,  first  shot  to  me. 
Oh,  Lordy!  but  it's  a  lovely  afternoon." 
5  The  noise  of  the  firing  grew  louder,  and  there  was  a 
tramping  of  men  in  the  wood.  The  two  lay  very  quiet, 
for  they  knew  that  the  British  soldier  is  desperately  prone 
to  fire  at  anything  that  moves  or  calls.  Then  Learoyd 
appeared,  his  tunic  ripped  across  the  breast  by  a  bullet, 
to  looking  ashamed  of  himself.  He  flung  down  on  the 
pine-needles,  breathing  in  snorts. 

"  One  o'  them  damned  gardeners  o'  th'  Pickles,"  said 
he,  fingering  the  rent.    "  Firin'  to  th'  right  flank,  when  he 
knowed  I  was  there.    If  I  knew  who  he  was  I'd  'a'  ripped 
15  the  hide  off  'un.     Look  at  ma  tunic!  " 

"  That's  the  spishil  trustability  av  a  marksman.    Train 

him  to  hit  a  fly  wid  a  stiddy  rest  at  seven  hunder,  an' 

he'll  loose  on  anythin'  he  sees  or  hears  up  to  th'  mile. 

You're  well  out  av  that  fancy-firm'  gang,  Jock.     Stay 

20  here." 

"  Bin  firin'  at  the  bloomin'  wind  in  the  bloomin'  tree- 
tops,"  said  Ortheris,  with  a  chuckle.  "  I'll  show  you  some 
firin'  later  on." 

They    wallowed    in    the    pine-needles,    and    the    sun 
25  warmed  them  where  they  lay.    The  Mixed  Pickles  ceased 
firing  and  returned  to  camp,  and  left  the  wood  to  a  few 
scared  apes.     The  water-course  lifted  up  its  voice  in  the 
silence  and  talked  foolishly  to  the  rocks.     Now  and  again 
the  dull  thump  of  a  blasting  charge  three  miles  away  told 
30  that  the  Aurangabadis  were  in  difficulties  with  their  road- 
making.     The  men  smiled  as  they  listened,  and  lay  still 
soaking  in  the  warm  leisure.     Presently  Learoyd,  between 
the  whiffs  of  his  pipe: 

"  Seems  queer — about  'im  yonder — desertin'  at  all." 


On  Greenhow  Hill  257 

'  'E'll  be  a  bloomin'  side  queerer  when  I've  done  with 
'im,"  said  Ortheris.  They  were  talking  in  whispers,  for 
the  stillness  of  the  wood  and  the  desire  of  slaughter  lay 
heavy  upon  them. 

"  I  make  no  doubt  he  had  his  reasons  for  desertin';  5 
but,  my  faith!  I  make  less  doubt  ivry  man  has  good  rea- 
son for  killin'  him,"  said  Mulvaney. 

"  Happen  there  was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi'  it.  Men  do 
more  than  that  for  th'  sake  of  a  lass." 

"  They  make  most  av  of  us  'list.    They've  no  manner  10 
av  right  to  make  us  desert." 

"  Ah,  they  make  us  'list,  or  their  fathers  do,"  said 
Learoyd,  softly,  his  helmet  over  his  eyes. 

Ortheris'  brows  contracted  savagely.     He  was  watch- 
ing the  valley.     "  If   it's  a   girl,   I'll   shoot   the   beggar  is 
twice  over,   an'  second   time   for  bein'   a   fooL     You're 
blasted   sentimental   all   of   a  sudden.    Thinkin'  o'  your 
last  near  shave  ?  " 

"Nay,  lad;  ah  was  but  thinkir'  o'  what  had  hap- 
pened." 20 

"  An'  fwhat  has  happened,  ye  lumberin'  child  av 
calamity,  that  you're  lowing  like  a  cow-calf  at  the  back 
av  the  pasture,  an'  suggestin'  invidious  excuses  for  the 
man  Stanley's  goin'  to  kill.  Ye'll  have  to  wait  another 
hour  yet,  little  man.  Spit  it  out,  Jock,  an'  bellow  melojus  25 
to  the  moon.  It  takes  an  earthquake  or  a  bullet  graze 
to  fetch  aught  out  av  you.  Discourse,  Don  Juan!  The 
a-moors  of  Lotharius  Learoyd.  Stanley,  kape  a  rowlin' 
rig'mental  eye  on  the  valley." 

"  It's  along  o'  yon  hill  there,"  said  Learoyd,  watching  30 
the  bare  sub-Himalayan  spur  that   reminded  him  of  his 
Yorkshire    moors.      He    was   speaking   more    to    himself 
than    his   fellows.      "Ay,"   said    he;    "  Rumbolds    Moor 
stands  up  ower  Skipton  town,  an'  Greenhow  Hill  stands 


258  The  Short  Story 

up  ower  Pately  Brigg.  I  reckon  you've  never  heard  tell 
o'  Greenhow  Hill,  but  yon  bit  o'  bare  stuff,  if  there 
was  nobbut  a  white  road  windin',  is  like  it,  strangely  like. 
Moors  an'  moors — moors  wi'  never  a  tree  for  shelter,  an' 
5  gray  houses  wi'  flag-stone  rooves,  and  pewits  cryin',  an' 
a  windhover  goin'  to  and  fro  just  like  these  kites.  And 
cold !  A  wind  that  cuts  you  like  a  knife.  You  could  tell 
Greenhow  Hill  folk  by  the  red-apple  color  o'  their  cheeks 
an'  nose  tips,  an'  their  blue  eyes,  driven  into  pin-points 

10  by  the  wind.  Miners  mostly,  burrowin'  for  lead  i'  th' 
hillsides,  followin'  the  trail  of  th'  ore  vein  same  as  a 
field-rat.  It  was  the  roughest  minin'  I  ever  seen.  Yo'd 
come  on  a  bit  o'  creakin'  wood  windlass  like  a  well- 
head, an'  you  was  let  down  i'  th'  bight  of  a  rope,  fendin' 

15  yoursen  off  the  side  wi'  one  hand,  carryin'  a  candle  stuck 
in  a  lump  o'  clay  with  t'other,  an'  clickin'  hold  of  a  rope 
with  t'other  hand." 

"  An'  that's  three  of  them,"  said  Mulvaney.  "  Must 
be  a  good  climate  in  those  parts." 

20       Learoyd  took  no  heed. 

"  An'  then  yo'  came  to  a  level,  where  you  crept  on  your 
hands  an'  knees  through  a  mile  o'  windin'  drift,  an' 
you  come  out  into  a  cave-place  as  big  as  Leeds  Town-hall, 
with  an  engine  pumpin'  water  from  workin's  'at  went 

25  deeper  still.  It's  a  queer  country,  let  alone  minin',  for 
the  hill  is  full  of  those  natural  caves,  an'  the  rivers  an' 
the  becks  drops  into  what  they  call  pot-holes,  an'  come 
out  again  miles  away." 

"Wot  was  you  doin'  there?"  said  Ortheris. 

30  "  I  was  a  young  chap  then,  an'  mostly  went  wi'  'osses, 
leadin'  coal  and  lead  ore;  but  at  th'  time  I'm  tellin'  on  I 
was  drivin'  the  wagon  team  i'  the  big  sumph.  I  didn't 
belong  to  that  countryside  by  rights.  I  went  there  be- 
cause of  a  little  difference  at  home,  an'  at  fust  I  took 


On  Greenhow  Hill  259 

up  wi'  a  rough  lot.  One  night  we'd  been  drinkin',  and 
I  must  ha'  hed  more  than  I  could  stand,  or  happen  th' 
ale  was  none  so  good.  Though  i'  them  days,  by  for 
God,  I  never  seed  bad  ale."  He  flung  his  arms  over  his 
head  and  gripped  a  vast  handful  of  white  violets.  "  Nah,"  5 
said  he,  "  I  never  seed  the  ale  I  could  not  drink,  the 
'bacca  I  could  not  smoke,  nor  the  lass  I  could  not  kiss. 
Well,  we  mun  have  a  race  home,  the  lot  on  us.  I  lost 
all  th'  others,  an'  when  I  was  climbin'  ower  one  of  them 
walls  built  o'  loose  stones,  I  comes  down  into  the  ditch,  10 
stones  an'  all,  an'  broke  my  arm.  Not  as  I  knowed  much 
about  it,  for  I  fell  on  th'  back  o'  my  head,  an'  was  knocked 
stupid  like.  An'  when  I  come  to  mysen  it  were  mornin', 
an'  I  were  lyin'  on  the  settle  i'  Jesse  Roantree's  house- 
place,  an'  'Liza  Roantree  was  settin'  sewin'.  I  ached  all  15 
ower,  and  my  mouth  were  like  a  lime-kiln.  She  gave  me 
a  drink  out  of  a  china  mug  wi'  gold  letters — '  A  Present 
from  Leeds,' — as  I  looked  at  many  and  many  a  time  after. 
'  Yo're  to  lie  still  wrhile  Doctor  Warbottom  comes,  be- 
cause your  arm's  broken,  an'  father  has  sent  a  lad  to  20 
fetch  him.  He  found  yo'  when  he  was  goin'  to  work, 
an'  carried  you  here  on  his  back,'  sez  she.  '  Oa! '  sez  I ; 
an'  I  shet  my  eyes,  for  I  felt  ashamed  o'  mysen.  '  Father's 
gone  to  his  work  these  three  hours,  an'  he  said  he'd  tell 
'em  to  get  somebody  to  drive  the  tram.'  The  clock  ticked  25 
an'  a  bee  corned  in  the  house,  an'  they  rung  i'  my  head 
like  mill-wheels.  An'  she  give  me  another  drink  an' 
settled  the  pillow.  '  Eh,  but  yo're  young  to  be  getten 
drunk  an'  such  like,  but  yo'  won't  do  it  again,  will  yo'?' 
1  Noa,'  sez  I.  '  I  wouldn't  if  she'd  not  but  stop  they  mill-  30 
wheels  clatterin'.'  " 

"  Faith,  it's  a  good  thing  to  be  nursed  by  a  woman 
when  you're  sick!  "  said  Mulvaney.  "  Dirt  cheap  at  the 
price  av  twenty  broken  heads." 


260  The  Short  Story 

Ortheris  turned  to  frown  across  the  valley.  He  had 
not  been  nursed  by  many  women  in  his  life. 

"  An'  then  Doctor  Warbottom  comes  ridin'  up,  an' 
Jesse  Roantree  along  with  'im.  He  was  a  high-larned 
5  doctor,  but  he  talked  wi'  poor  folks  same  as  theirsens. 
'What's  tha  bin  agaate  on  naa?'  he  sings  out.  '  Brek- 
kin  tha  thick  head  ?  '  An'  he  felt  me  all  over.  '  That's 
none  broken.  Tha'  nobbut  knocked  a  bit  sillier  than  ordi- 
nary, an'  that's  daaft  eneaf.'  An'  soa  he  went  on,  callin' 

10  me  all  the  names  he  could  think  on,  but  settin'  my  arm, 
wi'  Jesse's  help,  as  careful  as  could  be.  '  Yo'  mun  let 
the  big  oaf  bide  here  a  bit,  Jesse,'  he  says,  when  he  had 
strapped  me  up  an'  given  me  a  dose  o'  physic ;  '  an'  you  an' 
'Liza  will  tend  him,  though  he's  scarcelins  worth  the 

15  trouble.  An'  tha'll  lose  tha  work,'  sez  he,  '  an'  tha'll  be 
upon  th'  Sick  Club  for  a  couple  o'  months  an'  more. 
Doesn't  tha  think  tha's  a  fool  ?  '  " 

"  But  whin  was  a  young  man,  high  or  low,  the 
other  av  a  fool,  I'd  like  to  know?"  said  Mulvaney. 

20 "  Sure,  folly's  the  only  safe  way  to  wisdom,  for  I've 
thried  it." 

"Wisdom!"  grinned  Ortheris,  scanning  his  comrades 
with  uplifted  chin.  "  You're  bloomin'  Solomons,  you 
two,  ain't  you  ?  " 

25  Learoyd  went  calmly  on,  with  a  steady  eye  like  an  ox 
chewing  the  cud.  "  And  that  was  how  I  corned  to  know 
'Liza  Roantree.  There's  some  tunes  as  she  used  to  sing — 
aw,  she  were  always  singin' — that  fetches  Greenhow  Hill 
before  my  eyes  as  fair  as  yon  brow  across  there.  And  she 

30  would  learn  me  to  sing  bass,  an'  I  was  to  go  to  th'  chapel 
wi'  'em,  where  Jesse  and  she  led  the  singin',  th'  old  man 
playin'  the  riddle.  He  was  a  strange  chap,  old  Jesse,  fair 
mad  wi'  music,  an'  he  made  me  promise  to  learn  the  big 
fiddle  when  my  arm  was  better.  It  belonged  to  him,  and 


On  Greenhow  Hill  261 

it  stood  up  in  a  big  case  alongside  o'  th'  eight-day  clock, 
but  Willie  Satterthwaite,  as  played  it  in  the  chapel,  had 
getten  deaf  as  a  door-post,  and  it  vexed  Jesse,  as  he  had  to 
rap  him  ower  his  head  \vi'  th'  fiddle-stick  to  make  him  give 
ower  sawin'  at  th'  right  time.  5 

"  But  there  was  a  black  drop  in  it  all,  an'  it  was  a 
man  in  a  black  coat  that  brought  it.  When  th'  Primitive 
Methodist  preacher  came  to  Greenhow,  he  would  always 
stop  wi'  Jesse  Roantree,  an'  he  laid  hold  of  me  from  th' 
beginning.  It  seemed  I  wor  a  soul  to  be  saved,  an'  he  10 
meaned  to  do  it.  At  th'  same  time  I  jealoused  'at  he  were 
keen  o'  savin'  'Liza  Roantree's  soul  as  well,  an'  I  could  ha' 
killed  him  many  a  time.  An'  this  went  on  till  one  day  I 
broke  out,  an'  borrowed  th'  brass  for  a  drink  from  'Liza. 
After  fower  days  I  come  back,  wi'  my  tail  between  my  15 
legs,  just  to  see  'Liza  again.  But  Jesse  were  at  home,  an' 
th'  preacher — th'  Reverend  Amos  Barraclough.  'Liza 
said  naught,  but  a  bit  o'  red  come  into  her  face  as  were 
white  of  a  regular  thing.  Says  Jesse,  tryin'  his  best  to 
be  civil :  '  Nay,  lad,  it's  like  this.  You've  getten  to  20 
choose  which  way  it's  goin'  to  be.  I'll  ha'  nobody  across 
ma  doorsteps  as  goes  a-drinkin',  an'  borrows  my  lass's 
money  to  spend  i'  their  drink.  Ho'd  tha  tongue,  'Liza,' 
sez  he  when  she  wanted  to  put  in  a  word  'at  I  were  wel- 
come to  th'  brass,  an'  she  were  none  afraid  that  I  wouldn't  25 
pay  it  back.  Then  the  reverend  cuts  in,  seein'  as  Jesse 
were  losin'  his  temper,  an'  they  fair  beat  me  among 
them.  But  it  were  'Liza,  as  looked  an'  said  naught,  as 
did  more  than  either  o'  their  tongues,  an'  soa  I  concluded 
to  get  converted."  30 

"Fwhat!"  shouted  Mulvaney.  Then,  checking  him- 
self, he  said,  softly:  "  Let  be!  Let  be!  Sure  the  Blessed 
Virgin  is  the  mother  of  all  religion  an'  most  women;  an' 
there's  a  dale  av  piety  in  a  girl  if  the  men  would  only  let 


262  The  Short  Story 

it  stay  there.    I'd  ha'  been  converted  myself  under  the  cir- 
cumstances." 

"  Nay,  but,"  pursued  Learoyd,  with  a  blush,  "  I 
meaned  it." 

5       Ortheris  laughed  as  loudly  as  he  dared,  having  regard 
to  his  business  at  the  time. 

"  Ay,  Ortheris,  you  may  laugh,  but  you  didn't  know 
yon  preacher  Barraclough — a  little  white-faced  chap  wi'  a 
voice  as  'u'd  wile  a  bird  off  an  a  bush,  and  a  way  o'  layin' 

10  hold  of  folks  as  made  them  think  they'd  never  had  a 
live  man  for  a  friend  before.  You  never  saw  him,  an' — 
an' — you  never  seed  'Liza  Roantree — never  seed  'Liza 
Roantree.  .  .  .  Happen  it  was  as  much  'Liza  as  th' 
preacher  and  her  father,  but  anyways  they  all  meaned  it, 

15  an'  I  was  fair  shamed  o'  mysen,  an'  so  become  what  they 
called  a  changed  character.  And  when  I  think  on,  it's 
hard  to  believe  as  yon  chap  going  to  prayer-meetin's, 
chapel,  arid  class-meetin's  were  me.  But  I  never  had 
naught  to  say  for  mysen,  though  there  was  a  deal  o' 

20  shoutin',  and  old  Sammy  Strother,  as  were  almost  clemmed 
to  death  and  doubled  up  with  the  rheumatics,  would  sing 
out,  '  Joyful !  joyful !  '  and  'at  it  were  better  to  go  up  to 
heaven  in  a  coal-basket  than  down  to  hell  i'  a  coach  an' 
six.  And  he  would  put  his  poor  old  claw  on  my  shoulder, 

25  sayin':  'Doesn't  tha  feel  it,  tha  great  lump?  Doesn't 
tha  feel  it?'  An'  sometimes  I  thought  I  did,  and  then 
again  I  thought  I  didn't,  an'  how  was  that?" 

"  The  iverlastin'  nature  av  mankind,"  said  Mulvaney. 
"  An',  furthermore,  I  misdoubt  you  were  built  for  the 

30  Primitive  Methodians.  They're  a  new  corps  anyways. 
I  hold  by  the  Ould  Church,  for  she's  the  mother  of 
them  all — ay,  an'  the  father,  too.  I  like  her  bekase 
she's  most  remarkable  regimental  in  her  fittings.  I  may 
die  in  Honolulu,  Nova  Zambra,  or  Cape  Cayenne,  but 


On  Greenhow  Hill  263 

wherever  I  die,  me  bein'  fwhat  I  am,  an'  a  priest  handy, 
I  go  under  the  same  orders  an'  the  same  words  an'  the 
same  unction  as  tho'  the  pope  himself  come  down  from 
the  dome  av  St.  Peter's  to  see  me  off.  There's  neither 
high  nor  low,  nor  broad  nor  deep,  not  betwixt  nor  be-  5 
tween  with  her,  an'  that's  what  I  like.  But  mark  you, 
she's  no  manner  av  Church  for  a  wake  man,  bekase 
she  takes  the  body  and  the  soul  av  him,  onless  he 
has  his  proper  work  to  do.  I  remember  when  my  father 
died,  that  was  three  months  comin'  to  his  grave;  begad  10 
he'd  ha'  sold  the  sheebeen  above  our  heads  for  ten  min- 
utes' quittance  of  purgathory.  An'  he  did  all  he  could. 
That's  why  I  say  it  takes  a  strong  man  to  deal  with  the 
Ould  Church,  an'  for  that  reason  you'll  find  so  many 
women  go  there.  An'  that  same's  a  conundrum."  15 

"  Wot's  the  use  o'  worritin'  'bout  these  things?"  said 
Ortheris.  "  You're  bound  to  find  all  out  quicker  nor 
you  want  to,  any'ow."  He  jerked  the  cartridge  out  of  the 
breech-block  into  the  palm  of  his  hand.  '  'Ere's  my  chap- 
lain," he  said,  and  made  the  venomous  black-headed  bullet  20 
bow  like  a  marionette.  '  'E's  goin'  to  teach  a  man  all 
about  which  is  which,  an'  wot's  true,  after  all,  before  sun- 
down. But  wot  'appened  after  that,  Jock  ?  " 

"  There  was  one  thing  they  boggled  at,  and   almost 
shut  th'  gate  i'  my  face  for,  and  that  were  my  dog  Blast,  25 
th'  only  one  saved  out  o'  a  litter  o'  pups  as  was  blowed  up 
when   a  keg  o'   minin'   powder  loosed   off  in   th'  store- 
keeper's hut.     They  liked  his  name  no  better  than  his 
business,  which  was  fightin'  every  dog  he  corned  across; 
a  rare  good  dog,  wi'  spots  o'  black  and  pink  on  his  face,  30 
one   ear   gone,   and    lame  o'   one  side   wi'   being   driven 
in   a  basket  through   an   iron   roof,   a  matter  of  half  a 
mile. 

"  They    said    I    mun    give    him    up    'cause   he   were 


264  The  Short  Story 

worldly  and  low ;  and  would  I  let  mysen  be  shut  out  of 
heaven  for  the  sake  of  a  dog?  '  Nay,'  says  I,  '  if  th' 
door  isn't  wide  enough  for  th'  pair  on  us,  we'll  stop  out- 
side, for  we'll  none  be  parted.'  And  th'  preacher  spoke 
5  up  for  Blast,  as  had  a  likin'  for  him  from  th'  first — I 
reckon  that  was  why  I  come  to  like  th'  preacher — and 
wouldn't  hear  o'  changin'  his  name  to  Bless,  as  some  o' 
them  wanted.  So  th'  pair  on  us  became  reg'lar  chapel 
members.  But  it's  hard  for  a  young  chap  o'  my  build  to 

10  cut  traces  from  the  world,  th'  flesh,  an'  the  devil  all  av 
a  heap.  Yet  I  stuck  to  it  for  a  long  time,  while  th' 
lads  as  used  to  stand  about  th'  town-end  an'  lean  ower 
th'  bridge,  spittin'  into  th'  beck  o'  a  Sunday,  would  call 
after  me,  '  Sitha,  Learoyd,  when's  tha  bean  to  preach, 

15  'cause  we're  comin'  to  hear  tha.'  '  Ho'd  tha  jaw!  He 
hasn't  getten  th'  white  choaker  on  ta  morn,'  another  lad 
would  say,  arfd'I  had  to  double  my  fists  hard  i'  th'  bottom 
of  my  Sunday  coat,  and  say  to  mysen,  '  If  'twere  Mon- 
day and  I  warn't  a  member  o'  the  Primitive  Methodists, 

20  I'd  leather  all  th'  lot  of  yond'.'     That  was  th'  hardest 

of  all — to  know  that  I  could  fight  and  I  mustn't  fight." 

Sympathetic  grunts  from  Mulvaney. 

"  So  what  wi'   singin',   practicing   and   class-meetin's, 

and  th'  big  fiddle,  as  he  made  me  take  between  my  knees, 

25 1  spent  a  deal  o'  time  i'  Jesse  Roantree's  house-place. 
But  often  as  I  was  there,  th'  preacher  fared  to  me  to  go 
oftener,  and  both  th'  old  an'  th'  young  woman  were 
pleased  to  have  him.  He  lived  i'  Pately  Brigg,  as  were 
a  goodish  step  off,  but  he  come.  He  come  all  the  same. 

30  I  liked  him  as  well  or  better  as  any  man  I'd  ever  seen  i' 
one  way,  and  yet  I  hated  him  wi'  all  my  heart  i'  t'other, 
and  we  watched  each  other  like  cat  and  mouse,  but  civil 
as  you  please,  for  I  was  on  my  best  behavior,  and  he 
was  that  fair  and  open  that  I  was  bound  to  be  fair  with 


On  Greenhow  Hill  265 

him.  Rare  and  good  company  he  was,  if  I  hadn't  wanted 
to  wring  his  cliver  little  neck  half  of  the  time.  Often 
and  often  when  he  was  goin'  from  Jesse's  I'd  set  him  a 
bit  on  the  road." 

"See  'im  'ome,  you  mean?"  said  Ortheris.  5 

"  Aye.  It's  a  way  we  have  i'  Yorkshire  o'  seein' 
friends  off.  Yon  was  a  friend  as  I  didn't  want  to  come 
back,  and  he  didn't  want  me  to  come  back  neither,  and 
so  we'd  walk  together  toward  Pately,  and  then  he'd  set 
me  back  again,  and  there  we'd  be  twal  two  o'clock  i'  10 
the  mornin'  settin'  each  other  to  an  fro  like  a  blasted  pair 
o'  pendulums  4\vixt  hill  and  valley,  long  after  th'  light 
had  gone  out  i'  'Liza's  window,  as  both  on  us  had  been 
looking  at,  pretending  to  watch  the  moon." 

"  Ah !  "  broke  in  Mulvaney,  "  ye'd  no  chanst  against  15 
the  maraudin'  psalm-singer.    They'll  take  the  airs  an'  the 
graces,  instid  av  the  man,  nine  times  out  «vten,  an'  they 
only  find  the  blunder  later — the  wimmen." 

"  That's  just  where  yo're  wrong,"  said  Learoyd,  red- 
cening  under  the  freckled  tan  of  his  cheek.  "  I  was  th'  20 
nrst  wi'  'Liza,  an'  yo'd  think  that  were  enough.  But 
th'  parson  were  a  steady-gaited  sort  o'  chap,  and  Jesse 
were  strong  o'  his  side,  and  all  th'  women  i'  the  congre- 
gation dinned  it  to  'Liza  'at  she  were  fair  fond  to  take 
up  wi'  a  wastrel  ne'er-do-weel  like  me,  as  was  scarcelins  25 
respectable,  and  a  fighting-dog  at  his  heels.  It  was  all 
very  well  for  her  to  be  doing  me  good  and  saving  my 
soul,  but  she  must  mind  as  she  didn't  do  herself  harm. 
They  talk  o'  rich  folk  bein'  stuck  up  an'  genteel,  but  for 
cast-iron  pride  o'  respectability,  there's  naught  like  poor  30 
chapel  folk.  It's  as  cold  as  th'  wind  o'  Greenhow  Hill — 
aye,  and  colder,  for  'twill  never  change.  And  now  I 
come  to  think  on  it,  one  of  the  strangest  things  I  know  is 
'at  they  couldn't  abide  th'  thought  o'  soldiering.  There's 


266  The  Short  Story 

a  vast  o'  fightin'  i'  th'  Bible,  and  there's  a  deal  of  Metho 
dists  i'  th'  army;  but  to  hear  chapel  folk  talk  yo'd  think 
that  soldierin'  were  next  door,  an'  t'other  side,  to  hangin'. 
I'  their  meetin's  all  their  talk  is  o'  fightin'.  When 

5  Sammy  Strother  were  struck  for  sommat  to  say  in  his 
prayers,  he'd  sing  out :  '  The  sword  o'  th'  Lord  and  o' 
Gideon.'  They  were  allus  at  it  about  puttin'  on  th' 
whole  armor  o'  righteousness,  an'  fightin'  the  good  fight 
o'  faith.  And  then,  atop  o'  't  all,  they  held  a  prayer- 

10  meetin'  ower  a  young  chap  as  wanted  to  'list,  and  nearly 
deafened  him,  till  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  fair  ran  away. 
And  they'd  tell  tales  in  th'  Sunday-school  o'  bad  lads  as 
had  been  thumped  and  brayed  for  bird-nesting  o'  Sun- 
days and  playin'  truant  o'  week-days,  and  how  they  took 

15  to  wrestlin',  dog-fightin',  rabbit-runnin',  and  drinkin',  till 
at  last,  as  if  'twere  a  hepitaph  on  a  gravestone,  they 
damned  him  across  th'  moors  wi',  '  an'  then  he  went  and 
'listed  for  a  soldier,'  an'  they'd  all  fetch  a  deep  breath,  and 
throw  up  their  eyes  like  a  hen  drinkin'." 

20  "  Fwhy  is  it?"  said  Mulvaney,  bringing  down  his 
hands  on  his  thigh  with  a  crack.  "  In  the  name  av  God, 
fwhy  is  it?  I've  seen  it,  tu.  They  cheat  an'  they  swindle, 
an'  they  lie  an'  they  slander,  an'  fifty  things  fifty  times 
worse ;  but  the  last  an'  the  worst,  by  their  reckonin',  is  to 

25  serve  the  Widdy  honest.  It's  like  the  talk  av  childer — 
seein'  things  all  round." 

"  Plucky  lot  of  fightin'  good  fights  of  whatsername 
they'd  do  if  we  didn't  see  they  had  a  quiet  place  to  fight 
in.  And  such  fightin'  as  theirs  is!  Cats  on  the  tiles. 

30  T'other  callin'  to  which  to  come  on.  I'd  give  a  month's 
pay  to  get  some  o'  them  broad-backed  beggars  in  London 
sweatin'  through  a  day's  road-makin'  an'  a  night's  rain. 
They'd  carry  on  a  deal  afterward — same  as  we're  sup- 
posed to  carry  on.  I've  bin  turned  out  of  a  measly  'arf 


On  Greenhow  Hill  267 

license  pub.  down  Lambeth  way,  full  o'  greasy  kebmen, 
'fore  now,"  said  Ortheris  with  an  oath. 

"  Maybe  you  were  dhrunk,"  said  Mulvaney,  sooth- 
ingly. 

"  Worse  nor  that.     The  Forders  were  drunk.     I  was  5 
wearin'  the  queen's  uniform." 

"  I'd  not  particular  thought  to  be  a  soldier  i'  them 
days,"  said  Learoyd,  still  keeping  his  eye  on  the  bare  hill 
opposite,  "  but  this  sort  o'  talk  put  it  i'  my  head.  They 
was  so  good,  th'  chapel  folk,  that  they  tumbled  ower  10 
t'other  side.  But  I  stuck  to  it  for  'Liza's  sake,  specially 
as  she  was  learning  me  to  sing  the  bass  part  in  a  horotorio 
as  Jesse  were  getting  up.  She  sung  like  a  throstle  hersen, 
and  we  had  practicin's  night  after  night  for  a  matter  of 
three  months."  15 

"  I  know  what  a  horotorio  is,"  said  Ortheris,  pertly. 
"  It's  a  sort  of  chaplain's  singsong — words  all  out  of  the 
Bible,  and  hullabaloojah  choruses." 

"  Most  Greenhow  Hill  folks  played  some  instrument 
or  t'other,  an'  they  all  sung  so  you  might  have  heard  20 
them  miles  away,  and  they  was  so  pleased  wi1  the  noise 
they  made  they  didn't  fair  to  want  anybody  to  listen. 
The  preacher  sung  high  seconds  when  he  wasn't  playin' 
the  flute,  an'  they  set  me,  as  hadn't  got  far  with  the  big 
fiddle,  again'  Willie  Satterthwaite,  to  jog  his  elbow  when  25 
he  had  to  get  a'  gate  playin'.  Old  Jesse  was  happy  if  ever 
a  man  was,  for  he  were  th'  conductor  an'  th'  first  fiddle 
an'  th'  leadin'  singer,  beatin'  time  wi'  his  fiddle-stick,  till 
at  times  he'd  rap  with  it  on  the  table,  and  cry  out :  '  Now, 
you  mun  all  stop;  it's  my  turn.'  And  he'd  face  round  30 
to  his  front,  fair  sweatin'  wi'  pride,  to  sing  the  tenor 
solos.  But  he  were  grandest  i'  th'  chorus,  waggin'  his 
head,  flinging  his  arms  round  like  a  windmill,  and  singin* 
hisself  black  in  the  face.  A  rare  singer  were  Jesse. 


268  The  Short  Story 

"  Yo'  see,  I  was  not  o'  much  account  wi'  'em  all  ex- 
ceptin'  to  Eliza  Roantree,  and  I  had  a  deal  o'  time  settin' 
quiet  at  meeting  and  horotorio  practices  to  hearken  their 
talk,  and  if  it  were  strange  to  me  at  beginning  it  got 
5  stranger  stilf  at  after,  when  I  was  shut  on  it,  and  could 
study  what  it  meaned. 

"  Just  after  th'  horotorios  come  off,  'Liza,  as  had  allus 
been  weakly  like,  was  took  very  bad.  I  walked  Doctor 
Warbottom's  horse  up  and  down  a  deal  of  times  while  he 

10  were  inside,  where  they  wouldn't  let  me  go,  though  I 
fair  ached  to  see  her. 

"  '  She'll  be  better  i'  noo,  lad — better  i'  noo,'  he  used 
to  say.  '  Tha  mun  ha'  patience.'  Then  they  said  if 
I  was  quiet  I  might  go  in,  and  th'  Reverend  Amos  Bar- 

15  raclough  used  to  read  to  her  lyin'  propped  up  among  th' 
pillows.  Then  she  began  to  mend  a  bit,  and  they  let  me 
carry  her  on  th'  settle,  and  when  it  got  warm  again  she 
went  about  same  as  afore.  Th'  preacher  and  me  and 
Blast  was  a  deal  together  i'  them  days,  and  i'  one  way  we 

20  was  rare  good  comrades.  But  I  could  ha'  stretched  him 
time  and  again  with  a  good-will.  I  mind  one  day  he 
said  he  would  like  to  go  down  into  th'  bowels  o'  th'  earth, 
and  see  how  th'  Lord  had  builded  th'  framework  o'  the 
everlastin'  hills.  He  was  one  of  them  chaps  as  had  a 

25  gift  o'  sayin'  things.  They  rolled  off  the  tip  of  his  clever 
tongue,  same  as  Mulvaney  here,  as  would  ha'  made  a 
rale  good  preacher  if  he  had  nobbut  given  his  mind  to  it. 
I  lent  him  a  suit  o'  miner's  kit  as  almost  buried  th'  little 
man,  and  his  white  face,  down  i'  th'  coat  collar  and  hat 

30  flap,  looked  like  the  face  of  a  boggart,  and  he  cowered 
down  i'  th'  bottom  o'  the  wagon.  I  was  drivin'  a  tram  as 
led  up  a  bit  of  an  incline  up  to  th'  cave  where  the  engine 
was  pumpin',  and  wrhere  th'  ore  was  brought  up  and  put 
into  th'  wagons  as  went  down  o'  themselves,  me  puttin' 


On  Greenhow  Hill  269 

th'  brake  on  and  th'  horses  a-trottin'  after.  Long  as  it 
was  daylight  we  were  good  friends,  but  when  we  got  fair 
into  th'  dark,  and  could  nobbut  see  th'  day  shinin'  at  the 
hole  like  a  lamp  at  a  street  end,  I  feeled  downright 
wicked.  My  religion  dropped  all  away  from  me  when  5 
I  looked  back  at  him  as  were  always  comin'  between  me 
and  Eliza.  The  talk  was  'at  they  were  to  be  wed  when 
she  got  better,  an'  I  couldn't  get  her  to  say  yes  or  nay  to 
it.  He  began  to  sing  a  hymn  in  his  thin  voice,  and  I 
came  out  wi'  a  chorus  that  was  all  cussin'  an'  swearin'  at  10 
my  horses,  an'  I  began  to  know  how  I  hated  him.  He 
were  such  a  little  chap,  too.  I  could  drop  him  wi'  one 
hand  down  Garstang's  copperhole — a  place  where  th' 
beck  slithered  ower  th'  edge  on  a  rock,  and  fell  wi'  a 
bit  of  a  whisper  into  a  pit  as  no  rope  i'  Greenhow  could  15 
plump." 

Again  Learoyd  rooted  up  the  innocent  violets. 
"  Aye,  he  should  see  th'  bowels  o'  th'  earth  an'  never 
naught  else.  I  could  take  him  a  mile  or  two  along  th' 
drift,  and  leave  him  wi'  his  candle  doused  to  cry  halle-  20 
lujah,  wi'  none  to  hear  him  and  say  amen.  I  was  to 
lead  him  down  the  ladderway  to  th'  drift  where  Jesse 
Roantree  was  workin',  and  why  shouldn't  he  slip  on  th' 
ladder,  wi'  my  feet  on  his  fingers  till  they  loosed  grip, 
and  I  put  him  down  wi'  my  heel?  If  I  went  fust  down  25 
th'  ladder  I  could  click  hold  on  him  and  chuck  him  over 
my  head,  so  as  he  should  go  squashin'  down  the  shaft, 
breakin'  his  bones  at  ev'ry  timberin',  as  Bill  Appleton  did 
when  he  was  fresh,  and  hadn't  a  bone  left  when  he  wrought 
to  th'  bottom.  Niver  a  blasted  leg  to  walk  from  Pately.  30 
Niver  an  arm  to  put  round  'Liza  Roantree's  waist. 
Niver  no  more — niver  no  more." 

The  thick  lips  curled  back  over  the  yellow  teeth,  and 
that  flushed   face  was  not   pretty  to  look  upon.      Mul- 


270  The  Short  Story 

vaney  nodded  sympathy,  and  Ortheris,  moved  by  his  com- 
rade's passion,  brought  up  the  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  and 
searched  the  hillsides  for  his  quarry,  muttering  ribaldry 
about  a  sparrow,  a  spout,  and  a  thunder-storm.  The 
5  voice  of  the  water-course  supplied  the  necessary  small- 
talk  till  Learoyd  picked  up  his  story. 

"  But  it's  none  so  easy  to  kill  a  man  like  yon.  When 
I'd  give  up  my  horses  to  th'  lad  as  took  my  place,  and 
I  was  showin'  th'  preacher  th'  workin's,  shoutin'  into  his 

10  ear  across  th'  clang  o'  th'  pumpin'  engines,  I  saw  he  was 
afraid  o'  naught;  and  when  the  lamplight  showed  his 
black  eyes,  I  could  feel  as  he  was  masterin'  me  again. 
I  were  no  better  nor  Blast  chained  up  short  and  growlin' 
i'  the  depths  of  him  while  a  strange  dog  went  safe  past. 

15  '  Th'art  a  coward  and  a  fool,'  I  said  to  mysen ;  an' 
wrestled  i'  my  mind  again'  him  till,  when  we  come  to 
Garstang's  copperhole,  I  laid  hold  o'  the  preacher  and 
lifted  him  up  over  my  head  and  held  him  into  the  darkest 
on  it.  '  Now,  lad,'  I  says,  '  it's  to  be  one  or  t'other  on 

20  us — thee  or  me — for  'Liza  Roantree.  Why,  isn't  thee 
afraid  for  thysen  ?  '  I  says,  for  he  were  still  i'  my  arms  as 
a  sack.  'Nay;  I'm  but  afraid  for  thee,  my  poor  lad,  as 
knows  naught,'  says  he.  I  set  him  down  on  th'  edge, 
an'  th'  beck  run  stiller,  an'  there  was  no  more  buzzin'  in 

25  my  head  like  when  th'  bee  come  through  th'  window  o' 
Jesse's  house.  '  What  dost  tha  mean  ?  '  says  I. 

"  '  I've  often  thought  as  thou  ought  to  know,'  says  he, 
'  but  'twas  hard  to  tell  thee.  'Liza  Roantree's  for  neither 
on  us,  nor  for  nobody  o'  this  earth.  Doctor  War- 

30  bottom  says — and  he  knows  her,  and  her  mother  before 
her — that  she  is  in  a  decline,  and  she  cannot  live  six 
months  longer.  He's  known  it  for  many  a  day.  Steady, 
John !  Steady ! '  says  he.  And  that  weak  little  man 
pulled  me  further  back  and  set  me  again'  him,  and  talked 


On  Greenhow  Hill  271 

it  all  over  quiet  and  still,  me  turnin'  a  bunch  o'  candles  in 
my  hand,  and  counting  them  ower  and  ower  again  a&  I 
listened.  A  deal  on  it  were  th'  regular  preachin'  talk, 
but  there  were  a  vast  lot  as  made  me  begin  to  think  as  he 
were  more  of  a  man  than  I'd  ever  given  him  credit  for,  5 
till  I  were  cut  as  deep  for  him  as  I  were  for  mysen. 

"  Six  candles  we  had,  and  we  crawled  and  climbed  all 
that  day  while  they  lasted,  and  I  said  to  mysen:  ''Liza. 
Roantree  hasn't  six  months  to  live.'  And  when  we  came 
into  th'  daylight  again  we  were  like  dead  men  to  look  10 
at,  an'  Blast  come  behind  us  without  so  much  as  waggin' 
his  tail.  When  I  saw  'Liza  again  she  looked  at  me  a 
minute,  and  says:  'Who's  telled  tha?  For  I  see  tha 
knows.'  And  she  tried  to  smile  as  she  kissed  me,  and  I 
fair  broke  down.  15 

"  You  see,  I  was  a  young  chap  i'  them  days,  and  had 
seen  naught  o'  life,  let  alone  death,  as  is  allus  a-waitin'. 
She  telled  me  as  Doctor  Warbottom  said  as  Greenhow 
air  was  too  keen,  and  they  were  goin'  to  Bradford,  to 
Jesse's  brother  David,  as  worked  i'  a  mill,  and  I  mun  20 
hold  up  like  a  man  and  a  Christian,  and  she'd  pray  for  me. 
Well,  and  they  went  away,  and  the  preacher  that  same 
back  end  o'  th'  year  were  appointed  to  another  circuit, 
as  they  call  it,  and  I  were  left  alone  on  Greenhow  Hill. 

"  I  tried,  and  I  tried  hard,  to  stick  to  th'  chapel,  but  25 
'tweren't  th'  same  thing  at  all  after.  I  hadn't  'Liza's 
voice  to  follow  i'  th'  singin',  nor  her  eyes  a-shinin'  acrost 
their  heads.  And  i'  th'  class-meetings  they  said  as  I  mun 
have  some  experiences  to  tell,  and  I  hadn't  a  word  to 
say  for  mysen.  30 

"  Blast  and  me  moped  a  good  deal,  and  happen  we 
didn't  behave  ourselves  ower  well,  for  they  dropped  us, 
and  wondered  however  they'd  come  to  take  us  up.  I 
can't  tell  how  we  got  through  th'  time,  while  i'  th' 


272  The  Short  Story 

winter  I  gave  up  my  job  and  went  to  Bradford.  Old 
Jesse  were  at  th'  door  o'  th'  house,  in  a  long  street  o' 
little  houses.  He'd  been  sendin'  th'  children  'way  as 
were  clatterin'  their  clogs  in  th'  causeway,  for  she  were 
5  asleep. 

'Is  it  thee?'  he  says;  'but  you're  not  to  see  her. 
I'll  none  have  her  wakened  for  a  nowt  like  thee.  She's 
goin'  fast,  and  she  mun  go  in  peace.  Thou'lt  never  be 
good  for  naught  i'  th'  world,  and  as  long  as  thou  lives 

10  thou'lt  never  play  the  big  fiddle.  Get  away,  lad,  get 
away ! '  So  he  shut  the  door  softly  i'  my  face. 

"  Nobody  never  made  Jesse  my  master,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  he  was  about  right,  and  I  went  away  into  the  town 
and  knocked  up  against  a  recruiting  sergeant.  The  old 

15  tales  o'  th'  chapel  folk  came  buzzin'  into  my  head.  I 
was  to  get  away,  and  this  were  th'  regular  road  for  the 
likes  o'  me.  I  'listed  there  and  then,  took  th'  Widow's 
shillin',  and  had  a  bunch  o'  ribbons  pinned  i'  my  hat. 

"  But  next  day  I  found  my  way  to  David  Roantree's 

20  door,  and  Jesse  came  to  open  it.  Says  he :  '  Thou's  come 
back  again  wi'  th'  devil's  colors  flyin' — thy  true  colors, 
as  I  always  telled  thee.' 

"  But  I  begged  and  prayed  of  him  to  let  me  see  her 
nobbut  to  say  good-by,  till  a  woman  calls  down  th'  stair- 

25  way,  '  She  says  John  Learoyd's  to  come  up.'     Th'  old 

man  shifts  aside  in  a  flash,  and  lays  his  hand  on  my  arm, 

quite  gentle  like.     '  But  thou'lt  be  quiet,  John,'  says  he, 

'  for  she's  rare  and  weak.    Thou  wast  allus  a  good  lad.' 

"  Her  eyes  were  alive  wi'  light,  and  her  hair  was  thick" 

30  on  the  pillow  round  her,  but  her  cheeks  were  thin — thin 
to  frighten  a  man  that's  strong.  '  Nay,  father,  yo'  mayn't 
say  th'  devil's  colors.  Them  ribbons  is  pretty.'  An'  she 
held  out  her  hands  for  th'  hat,  an'  she  put  all  straight  as 
a  woman  will  wi'  ribbons.  '  Nay,  but  what  they're 


On  Greenhow  Hill  273 

pretty,'  she  says.  '  Eh,  but  I'd  ha'  liked  to  see  thee  i'  thy 
red  coat,  John,  for  thou  wast  allus  my  own  lad — my  very 
own  lad,  and  none  else.' 

"  She  lifted   up  her  arms,   and   they   came  round   my 
neck  i'  a  gentle  grip,  and  they  slacked  away,  and  she  5 
seemed  fainting.     '  Now,  yo'  mun  get  away,  lad,'  says 
Jesse,  and  I  picked  up  my  hat  and  I  came  downstairs. 

"  Th'  recruiting  sergeant  were  waitin'  for  me  at  th' 
corner  public-house.  '  Yo've  seen  your  sweetheart  ?  '  says 
he.  '  Yes,  I've  seen  her,'  says  I.  '  Well,  we'll  have  a  10 
quart  now,  and  you'll  do  your  best  to  forget  her,'  says 
he,  bein'  one  o'  them  smart,  bustlin'  chaps.  '  Aye,  ser- 
geant,' says  I.  '  Forget  her.'  And  I've  been  forgettin' 
her  ever  since." 

He  threw  away  the  wilted  clump  of  white  violets  as  15 
he  spoke.    Ortheris  suddenly  rose  to  his  knees,  his  rifle  at 
his  shoulder,  and  peered  across  the  valley  in  the  clear 
afternoon  light.     His  chin  cuddled  the  stock,  and  there 
was  a  twitching  of  the  muscles  of  the  right  cheek  as  he 
sighted.      Private   Stanley  Ortheris  was  engaged   on  his  20 
business.    A  speck  of  white  crawled  up  the  water-course. 

"See  that  beggar?     Got  'im." 

Seven  hundred  yards  away,  and  a  full  two  hundred 
down  the  hillside,  the  deserter  of  the  Aurangabadis  pitched 
forward,  rolled  down  a  red  rock,  and  lay  very  still,  with  25 
his  face  in  a  clump  of  the  blue  gentians,  while  a  big 
raven  flapped  out  of  the  pine  wood  to  make  investigation. 

"  That's  a  clean  shot,  little  man,"  said  Mulvaney. 

Learoyd  thoughtfully  watched  the  smoke  clear  away. 

"  Happen  there  was  a  lass  tewed  up  wi'  him,   too,"  30 
said  he.     Ortheris  did  not  reply.     He  was  staring  across 
the  valley,  with  the  smile  of  the  artist  who  looks  on  the 
completed  work.     For  he  saw  that  it  was  good. 


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HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY,  K 


Pancoast's  Introduction  to 
English  Literature 

By  HENRY  S.  PANCOAST.  Fourth  Edition,  Revised  and 
Enlarged,  ix  +  656  pp.  12010.  $1.35- 

This  edition  has  been  entirely  rewritten  and 
printed  from  new  plates  on  a  larger  page.  Greater 
space  has  been  given  to  the  Early  and  the  Middle 
English  periods  and  to  the  literature  of  the  Queen 
Anne  and  Victorian  periods.  Lives  of  Bunyan, 
Dryden,  Steele,  Covvper,  and  others  have  been  added. 

C.  G.  CHILD,  Professor  in  the  University  of  Pennsyl- 
vania:— It  is-far  and  away  the  best  elementary  text-book 
of  English  Literature  in  existence. 

WILLIAM  LYON  PHELPS,  Professor  in  Yale  University: — 
This  is  an  exceedingly  valuable  book,  in  fact  one  of  the 
best  summaries  of  English  Literature  that  has  ever  been 
written. 

JAMES  HUGH  MOFFATT,  Central  High  School,  Phila- 
delphia, Pa  : — I  have  always  liked  this  book  because  it 
shows  so  clearly  that  English  Literature  is  an  expression  of 
national  life,  and  because  it  is  not  only  about  literature 
but  is  literature  itself. 

DR.  ALBERT  LEONARD,  Superintendent  of  Schools,  New 
Rochelle,  N.  Y.: — The  book  has  been  made  even  better 
than  it  was  before  the  revision.  There  is  no  better  text- 
book for  High  School  work  in  English  Literature  than  this 
book,  and  I  am  sure  that  this  revised  edition  will  win  a 
still  larger  number  of  friends. 

Pancoast's  Introduction  to 
American  Literature 

BY  HENRY  S.  PANCOAST.  xii  +  393  pp.  i6mo.  $1.24 
THE  NATION: — Quite  the  best  brief  manual  of  the  subject 
we  know.  .  .  .  National  traits  are  well  brought  out  with- 
out neglecting  organic  connections  with  the  mother 
country.  Forces  and  movements  are  as  well  handled  as 
personalities,  the  influence  of  writers  hardly  less  than 
their  individuality. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 


Pancoast's  Standard  English  Poems 

Spenser  to  Tennyson.  Selected  and  edited  by  HENR} 
S.  PANOOAST.  xxiii  +  749  pp.  i6mo.  $1.50. 

HENRY  A.  BEERS,  Professor  in  Yale  University: — Th« 
collection  seems  to  me,  in  general,  made  with  excellent 
judgment  and  the  notes  are  sensible,  helpful,  and  not  too 
•tveitlaufig. 

FRED  LEWIS  PATTEE,  Professor  in  State  College,  Pa.: — 
An  ideal  selection  from  every  standpoint. 

SAMUEL  THURBKR,  Girls'  High  School,  Boston: — Mr.  Pan- 
coast  had  in  view  the  teacher  who  means  to  give  the  best 
possible  conspectus  of  English  poems,  rather  than  the 
searcher  for  gems  to  make  a  golden  treasury.  Yet  the 
book  is  a  treasury,  for  all  that.  .  .  .  Challenging  compari- 
son as  [a  text-book],  it  easily  takes  first  rank.  .  .  .  Surely 
nobody  is  using  a  book  of  this  scope  quite  so  good  as  this. 

Pancoast's  Standard  English  Prose 

From  Bacon  to  Stevenson.  Selected  and  edited  by 
HENRYS.  PANCOAST.  ix  +  676pp.  ismo.  $1.50. 

About  one  hundred  selections  (most  of  them  com- 
plete in  themselves)  from  Bacon,  Walton,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  Fuller,  Milton,  Jeremy  Taylor, 
Cowley,  Bunyan,  Dryden,  Defoe,  Swift,  Addison, 
Steele,  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Burke,  Coleridge, 
Southey,  Lamb,  Landor,  Hazlitt,  De  Quincey, 
Carlyle,  Macaulay,  Newman,  Froude,  Ruskin, 
Thackeray,  Matthew  Arnold,  Pater,  and  Stevenson. 

R.  K.  ROOT,  Princeton  University: — The  list  of 
authors  represented  is  thoroughly  comprehensive  and  the 
selections  themselves  are  chosen  with  excellent  taste.  I 
am  specially  pleased  that  Mr.  Pancoast  has  given  complete 
essays,  rather  than  mere  fragments. 

F.  B.  WHITE,  St.  Paul's  School,  Concord,  N.  H.:—l\.  is 
an  admirable  collection.  I  have  seen  almost  no  book  of 
selections  from  literature  which  seems  to  me  so  satisfacto- 
rily complete. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 
NEW  YORK  CHICAGO 


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